


In A Certain Light

by blanketed_in_stars, lovecybelle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Captain America Big Bang 2018 | cabigbang, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Embedded Images, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, F/F, Fluff, Healing, Healthy Relationships, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Military Backstory, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapist Sam Wilson, Trust Issues, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, but it's really not a ton; see the chapter 1 notes for details, consensual and enthusiastic love abounds, hand holding, it looks all dark and grim but I promise it is also sweet and happy and kind, people working through their issues and getting to know each other with mutual support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 100,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle/pseuds/lovecybelle
Summary: It’s been a year since Bucky was rescued, but he doesn’t feel saved. His world has shrunk to his gardening job, the apartment he shares with Natasha, and his meetings with his therapist, Sam—none of which stop him from shaking to pieces in the night. Some things change, and some things don’t, the day he walks into an art gallery and meets Steve.This is a story about fear, trust, learning to glue things back together again, and how to love them for their broken places.





	1. Part One: Spring

**Author's Note:**

> From Cybelle: I wanna thank you for writing such an amazing fic, the mods, my sister [@have-you-read-this](http://have-you-read-this.tumblr.com/), and my best friends [@screaming-moth](http://screaming-moth.tumblr.com/) and [@luxrayluv.](http://luxrayluv.tumblr.com)
> 
> From Nicole: This is the first time I've sat down to write pre-fic thank yous and been at a loss for words. The story that became "In A Certain Light" started with the words "okay, I have no time to work on this right now, but what about..." Fast-forward twenty months and I'm still not quite sure how I managed to create this - but I am dead certain that I could not have done it without some very special people.
> 
> First, [Cybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle), the most talented and unendingly patient artist I could have asked for! Calligraphy has always seemed so beautiful-yet-unattainable to me, and so what she has transformed this story into is pure magic. She was also the first set of eyes to see the draft, and was so considerate and helpful in making the story what it is today. Thank you, Cybelle, for bearing with me through all of the delays and life transitions, and for bringing this world to life in such a breathtaking way!
> 
> Second, [Audrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot), my beta and hype woman and the love of my life in all the ways that matter. Audrey stuck with me through the initial excitement, long slog, and last-minute panic that was this story, giving me so much encouragement and confidence, and also being a true friend when I asked her to tell me what needed fixing and what just needed to be cut. To quick turnarounds, falling into holes (in Greece or elsewhere) and getting out of them, and late-night freakouts - Audrey, I literally will never be able to thank you enough for the words, love, and cheer you've given me through this process, but I'll say it anyways: thank you!!!
> 
> Third, my irl friends, who did not tell me to shut up when I started to get a little obsessed (and panicked) towards the end. All your support has meant the world to me, even though none of you writes fic and I was way too melodramatic much of the time. You guys showed me so much kindness and understanding, you let me go on long, drawn-out tangents about emotional arcs, you let me ask you the strangest questions at the most inconvenient times, and I am so incredibly grateful! Thank you <3
> 
> tl;dr - This story is the work of many people who definitely had their own lives to live, but who made time to help me create something that would not exist otherwise, and I hope the love I feel for all of them shows in the heart of the work!
> 
>  
> 
> **And from both of us: we want to ask all our readers in the US to please, please, _please_ get registered to vote and then go out and vote next week on November 6th!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also want to make note of a few disclaimers and content warnings.
> 
>   * This story is involves characters living with and discussions about PTSD, chronic illness, and mental health struggles. I can only speak firsthand about the third one; while I've done my best to be sensitive and accurate in my portrayals of the characters' situations, there may be things I missed or got wrong. I sincerely apologize for these! The mistakes are mine and not my beta's or artist's. I am entirely open to learning how I can improve or change things to better represent these subjects. 
>   * When it comes to therapy, I can only speak from my own experiences. Though again I did make an effort to learn about what constitutes healthy, legal practice, it's possible that some liberties taken in the story would not be allowed in the real world. This is not an attempt to portray an unethical doctor-patient relationship. 
>   * This story also deals heavily with torture. I'm indebted to [scripttorture](https://scripttorture.tumblr.com/) and [scripttraumasurvivors](https://scripttraumasurvivors.tumblr.com/) for all their resources and dedication to treating these subjects with compassion and sensitivity. I think it's important to mention that torture cannot "break" a person or rebuild their personality (sorry, MCU canon). The discourses in the story reflect the characters’ beliefs about what happened in the backstory, are colored by their own varying states of mental health, and are not an objectively true portrayal about the capabilities of torture or my beliefs about it. 
>   * Bucky and Natasha both have military backgrounds in this story, and Clint mentions having once considered joining the FBI. None of those experiences are portrayed as positive. That's honestly as deep as the critique of military goes in this fic—which is to say, not far at all. A better-written story would have delved deeper and possibly offered some kind of criticism of the military culture and mentality, but in addition to not having the time or scope to get into it, I also didn't feel I had the perspective to go much further out of my own knowledge than I already had. At the very least you can take it from me (the author) that the story is not intended to in any way support or positively represent military operations or institutions. Quite honestly, the only reason there are any references to the military in the fic at all is because of the facts of canon. 
>   * Finally, please read at your own risk! If you couldn't tell from all these disclaimers, the story involves explicit discussion of torture, chronic illness/pain, injury, and mental health. Sometimes these discussions may be reminiscent of self harm, though there is no intentional mention (explicit or implied) of self harm in the story. If any of these themes will be harmful to your health or well-being, please proceed with caution. It's ultimately a happy story, but it's a rough road to get there. Take care of yourself <3 
> 


Who the hell paints a building this shade of blue, that’s what Bucky wants to know. About five times too bright for such a small space, and it’s only the outside: Bucky stands across the street, staring, and then looks down at the address in his hand, realizing belatedly that he never scrubbed the dirt out from under his fingernails after work. Whatever, it’s too late now—this the right place. Roger That, Middagh Street, Brooklyn. The first one that came up when Bucky typed “art gallery”—he didn’t look at the reviews or ratings, just copied down the address, but it looks pretty dead today. Better than a museum, at any rate: no metal detectors. Suppressing a grimace, he crosses the street and goes inside, cringing a little at the merry tinkle of bells when he opens the door.

There’s not a soul in sight, not even behind the desk, but there’s a gray cat sitting on top of the desk, flicking its tail and watching Bucky with large orange eyes. The inside is painted a yellow that is just as bright as the blue of the exterior, and it’s still cramped. There’s only one piece of art that Bucky can see—on the floor against the side wall there lies piled, haphazard, a collection of stone body parts. Nose, arms, one lower leg, what looks kind of like a broken-off dick. Bucky steps closer to read the plaque, which is absurdly low on the wall—

“It’s called _Kouros,”_ a voice says.

Bucky turns around. A small, thin man is leaning in the door frame behind the desk. “Sorry,” Bucky says automatically, taking a step away from the exhibit, whatever it is, and towards the man, like he’s guilty or something. “I was just—” He falters.

“You can look,” the man says, smiling. He pushes off of the door frame and comes around the desk, walking a little funny, swaying one hip more than the other but not quite limping. “It is an art gallery, after all.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Steve.”

“Bucky.” The guy has a ridiculously strong grip.

“The artist is from Brooklyn,” Steve says, then shrugs. “I mean, most of our artists are, I’m big on local talent. But her parents are from Greece and—well—what do you think?”

Suddenly finding himself the focus of Steve’s intense gaze, as powerful as his handshake, Bucky is unprepared to answer. Apparently Steve expects him to have some kind of opinion about the piece. Taken aback, Bucky leans in again for a closer look. The plaque, he notices, is completely blank; all the pieces are made of what looks like white marble. “It’s like a statue,” he says, “or pieces of one, I guess.” He thinks of a statue he saw when he went to the Met, years and years ago. The image is vague in his mind: a muscular torso, an upturned face. No nose, no arms, no lower body at all. Startled, he looks at Steve.

Like he knows what connection Bucky’s just made, Steve smiles again. “You can touch it if you want. This one’s interactive.”

Bucky straightens up. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Sure,” Steve says, breezy. He goes back to the desk and stands behind it, bracing himself on the surface. “Anything I can do for you today, anyhow?”

Uncertain, Bucky follows a few steps behind, and stops a foot or two away from the desk. “I, uh, just wanted to look.” He wonders if this is bad etiquette. Aren’t you supposed to buy things in an art gallery? Well, fat chance, he thinks; Steve can probably already tell that from his jeans and plain long-sleeve t-shirt, both of which are looking a little faded these days. And speaking of his clothes, is there a dress code for these places? Not for the first time, Bucky thinks very rude thoughts about his therapist. Trust Sam to come up with something like this.

But Steve just nods. “All right,” he says, and hands Bucky a brochure that unfolds to reveal a map of the gallery’s layout, helpfully labeled with general categories. “It’s just through there.” He points to the open door to the right of the desk.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, feeling anything but grateful. He walks through and finds himself in a long room with paintings on the walls. The first one he stops at is abstract, and Bucky looks at the slash of green and the purple dots and thinks, _I could do that._

The fact is, this assignment is dumb, and the farther Bucky wanders through the gallery, the more idiotic he feels. He needs a new brain, maybe a new body too; staring at some eclectic collection for a few hours isn’t going to cut it. He sits on a bench three rooms in and looks blankly ahead. He’ll spend an afternoon here. He’ll tell Sam it was boring. He won’t even have to lie about it.

“I love that one.” Bucky whips around: it’s Steve again. And now it’s his turn to apologize. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” He comes to sit on the edge of the bench, leaving several feet between them. “It reminds me of the view from my apartment when I was a kid.”

For the first time, Bucky looks at what’s in front of him. The canvas is so big it goes almost to the ceiling, and the only recognizable thing on it is the moon, which is, for some reason, orange. The whole thing is hazy and undefined. “You saw an orange moon?”

Steve laughs. It seems as easy as his smiling, almost like he doesn’t know how to do anything else. “No, I could hardly see it at all. I’m a little better now, but ten-year-old me had trouble reading anything more than ten inches away.”

“And you run an art gallery?” Fuck. What a shitty thing to ask.

But Steve only looks at him weird for a second. “Funny, isn’t it?” he says. “Sometimes you just gotta show the world, though.”

Bucky doesn’t have a response to that.

Steve doesn’t seem to mind. “Anyways—yeah, I love it. And if you get real close you can see something else, go take a look.” He motions Bucky forward.

It’s not like there’s much of a choice—Bucky still feels a little rude for not touching the creepy statue chunks before. He walks up to the painting. “Closer,” Steve says behind him. Now there are only a few inches between his nose and the canvas. He peers—and then he realizes that the whole painting is made up of one line, going around and around in tight formation like tree rings. That’s what makes it look fuzzy. Bucky leans even closer, intrigued. It seems impossible that anyone could make so much detail out of one continuous line, especially something as big as this.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/143551898@N08/44713111535/in/dateposted-public/)

“Cool, right?” When Bucky turns around, Steve’s grinning.

“Pretty cool, yeah,” Bucky allows. He feels suddenly exposed, out of his depth. Steve has got to see by now that he doesn’t know a thing about art, and worse, he doesn’t care to. He shoves his hands deeper in his pockets. “I, uh—I like it.”

As if he’s been waiting for that, Steve pushes to his feet and beckons to Bucky. “Then you’ll like this one, too. Come on.”

Bucky follows, dubious, into the next room, and then into another. How big is this place, anyway? Finally they stop in front of an empty frame. Well—not quite empty. A few red strings stretch across the space where the picture should be. Against the white wall, the stark black wood of the frame stands out, as does the thread. But that’s about it, as far as Bucky can tell. He looks at Steve.

Steve looks back. “Well? Whaddyathink?”

“Uh.” Bucky sighs, then gives up. “To be honest I think it’s kind of weird.”

Contrary to what he expected, Steve just squints at him. “This is gonna sound rude,” he says, and Bucky thinks it’ll be hard to sound ruder than Bucky’s already been, “but do you like art?”

It’s a great question, and maybe because it’s so spot-on, Bucky feels like he’s been slapped. “Do I like it?” he repeats.

“Well, it’s just that you’ve seemed a little scared of every piece, and I’m not sure you’re really looking at them.” Steve gives an apologetic little shrug. “I mean, do what you think is best, but it’s not a problem if you came in here looking for the library or something. You can go if you want.”

Bucky is tempted to take him up on the offer, but Sam will probably take one look at him and know he cheated. Besides, Steve sounds genuinely concerned—like he cares whether or not a stranger off the street is having a good time. “Nah,” he manages. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” And maybe he’s finally developing a conscience about this, or maybe it’s just the way Steve is looking at him with big, curious eyes, but he feels a little bad saying that. “I mean. Not that it’s so bad in here.” Steve laughs, not rudely, but with his whole face alight. “I just don’t know a lot about art,” Bucky explains quickly, flushing.

Steve quiets down, though he’s obviously still enjoying this, which is kind of crazy to Bucky since his time is absolutely being wasted. “Well, this isn’t a museum, it’s not exactly meant to be educational—but you don’t really need to know anything,” he says. “Yeah, sure, I went to art school, but I never graduated. It’s something you feel more than you know it.”

“What is?”

As if he’s never really considered that before, Steve frowns. “What you like, I guess. What you look at and just—fall into, like a good memory you’ve forgotten. Sorry.” He laughs again, a little self-consciously this time. “Am I even making any sense?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never felt that way about a picture before.”

“Ever?” Steve asks, like he just can’t help it.

And that makes Bucky think. “Well,” he says slowly, “I guess maybe—when I was younger.” It’s such a cliché phrase but it’s true in its way. Even just a few years ago seems like another lifetime now.

In any case, Steve is nodding. “So something’s changed between then and now,” he says. “Trust me, art appreciation’s not something you grow out of. You think maybe something happened to make you forget how?”

Bucky laughs, the short staccato burst that seems to be all he can manage these days. “Christ, what a question,” he says, and he’s grinning even as everything in his body congeals. “Yeah, there was—there was definitely something, all right.”

There’s a peculiar moment when Steve’s face is open with the realization, and the transition from interest to chagrin is obvious. He raises his hands in a gesture that’s half surrender, half calming. “Hey, sorry,” he says, “I guess that’s none of my business. Peggy always says I don’t know when to shut up.”

It’s a struggle, but Bucky shrugs. “Fair question,” he says. “You couldn’t have known I’m all kinds of fucked up.” Now he’s really done it—he rushes on. “Do I get a rudely personal question in return?”

Steve weighs that for a second. “Sure,” he says at last.

“Is Peggy your wife?” The words are out of his mouth before he can even understand why he wants to know, but the expression on Steve’s face is worth it.

“Wife?” Steve repeats, his eyes bugging out a little. “God, no—I mean, we dated once, but no.” Now he’s grinning. “She dumped me a long time ago for her friend Angie, they’re getting married next year.”

“Oh.” Bucky hesitates, then offers, “Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Steve breezes. He laughs again. “God, if she could hear you ask that—” He shakes his head. “Anyway, what were we talking about? Your art appreciation block? Well, we can deal with that. I don’t need to know what it is to work around it.”

Bucky pauses with his mouth open, about to object that he never said a word about dealing with anything. Then he remembers his assignment, and how he has to spend enough time here to be able to talk about it later. What the hell, he decides. Might as well have something to show for it.

—

“How are you?” Sam asks the following week, leaning on one arm of his chair.

In his own equally nice chair, Bucky sits ramrod-straight and bites the inside of his cheek. He hates this question, and not because it never changes. “I’m good,” he says. “I went out for sandwiches with Natasha on Thursday.”

“That sounds great,” Sam says, and smiles. “How’s she doing?”

“Fine.” Bucky shrugs. “She’s been getting into ballet, which is—I don’t know, weird, but I guess it’s her choice.”

“Weird?” Sam repeats.

“Yeah, I mean, she told me once that it had something to do with what they did to her,” Bucky says, “over—over there.” He waves a vague hand. “Some kind of conditioning, I think?” He stops, aware that this information isn’t really his to give out, and that he’s probably already said too much. He’s glad Natasha doesn’t know.

But of course Sam latches on. “And why do you think it’s weird that she’s doing activities that are—hmm—connected to her experiences?”

Bucky blinks at him. It’s obvious that Sam knows the answer, having dealt with Bucky for months now, but that’s what Sam does: he makes Bucky say it. You’d think another veteran would understand—which is of course the whole point. Sam does understand. Goddammit. “It’s the same as her self-defense classes,” he says. And this, Bucky thinks, isn’t even about how irritating it is that she teaches while he gardens. “It’s not gonna help her move past it,” Bucky tells him. “It’s just gonna bring it out more.”

Sam nods and makes one of those horrible notes on his notepad. “Does anything bring it out for you?” he asks.

“No,” Bucky says firmly. _The subway,_ his mind supplies. “No, not really.”

Sam’s professional enough—or just a good enough liar—that he doesn’t even look skeptical. He leans back a little more. “How was the rest of the week?” he asks. “Besides the sandwiches.”

“It was fine.” This is what Bucky hates, the gradual sharpening of the question. He wonders how many months he’ll be here before Sam just flat-out asks him if he had a panic attack, or if he threw up in his own bed. “I did that thing you wanted,” he says, to forestall the moment in case it’s near at hand. “I went to an art gallery.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky frowns down at his fingernails, bitten to the quick. “It was—it was okay. Weird little place. It’s called Roger That, do you know it?” Sam shakes his head. “This guy showed me around, told me some stuff.”

Sam nods again. “What kind of stuff?”

“Just about the art he likes and why he likes it. He, uh—he thinks I’ve got a problem enjoying art.” Bucky snorts. “He asked if something happened to cause it.”

Tracing one finger around the spiral binding of his notepad, the corner of Sam’s mouth twitches. “Did you tell him?”

“Ha,” Bucky says, “no.”

“Any particular reason?”

“You mean other than the obvious one? Hello, stranger, I’ve—yeah, right.” He shakes his head. “Not exactly something I can just drop in casual conversation with people I’ve only known for fifteen minutes, you know? And it kinda kills the mood.”

Sam gives him a considering look and tilts his head. “Does anyone else know?” he asks. “Have you told anyone new?”

“Not since I moved in with Nat.” Bucky can count on one hand all the people in the world who know what happened. What he’s done. _What he’s been through,_ Sam keeps suggesting, but it’s not that simple. And Natasha doesn’t know everything, in any case. “I don’t know anyone well enough to tell them,” he says.

“What’s your criteria?” Sam asks. “In order to tell them.”

“Well—” Bucky frowns. “I guess I’d have to know them for a while. Uh, a few months at least. And we’d have to get along.”

“And there’s no one in your life that meets those standards?”

“Are you trying to get me to spill my guts to everyone?” It comes out harsh, but Sam doesn’t look offended. Bucky sighs. “There’s my landlady, the kid who bags my groceries, and, uh, maybe my boss. We’re friendly, we see each other every week at least. But you can’t take that kind of stuff and turn it into a place to share this shit, right?”

Sam makes a noise—whether it’s skeptical or affirmative, Bucky can’t tell—and turns his pen around in his hand. “Let’s come back to the art gallery,” he says. “Was there any artwork that you felt deeply about?” Bucky’s quiet. “It doesn’t matter what it made you feel,” Sam adds, “just that it made you feel something.”

Thinking back, Bucky tries to recall his reaction to what he saw. That weird statue thing in the lobby, he thinks, kind of creeped him out, but he doesn’t think that’s what Sam means by “feeling deeply.” The quiet room, almost sound-proof, which is probably meant to be peaceful, makes it hard to speak. “There was this one painting,” he says eventually, “with an orange moon. I mean—there were other things in it too, but I don’t know. It was hard to tell. It was all one line, everything on the canvas, like—” He traces in the air with one finger. “There was an orange moon,” he says again, shrugging.

“And what did it make you feel?”

The truth is, Bucky doesn’t really know. He mostly remembers feeling incredibly awkward, like an imposter caught in a lie—which is kind of how he feels now. But underneath his own ignorance of art, he thinks he felt—“Awed,” he says. “By how detailed it was.” Nobody uses the word _awed_ anymore, but it’s as close as he knows how to get. “And it was crazy to think of how long it must’ve taken. The painting took up the whole wall.” He feels that whatever-it-is in his chest again at the thought of it. Christ, maybe this is what Steve meant about feeling more than knowing. Or maybe he’s losing it. Bucky shrugs. “I just liked it.”

Sam nods. “Was it a good feeling?”

“What?” Bucky blinks. “I said I liked it, didn’t I?” But Sam’s just giving him that steady look that means he’s waiting for more. So Bucky takes a second to think about it. And he finds that it isn’t a good feeling at all. It’s too big for that. “I don’t know,” he says quietly, and it seems like that’s all he’s been able to say today. “It’s like… I can’t tell, it’s… it reminds me of the Grand Canyon, I don’t know. I don’t know,” he says again, more firmly, rubbing his face. He smiles. “Real fuckin’ articulate, aren’t I?”

About two minutes pass after that, in complete silence. Bucky knows Sam’s still waiting but he doesn’t have the words, doesn’t know what words he needs anyway, so he crosses his arms and frowns at the wall so it looks like he’s deep in thought. Eventually Sam shifts in his chair. “Our time’s just about up,” he says. “I think you should go back to the gallery and take another look at the painting. See if you can think of what it’s saying to you, and try to put some words to it. Maybe bring a notebook,” he suggests, and smiles.

—

Bucky waits four days to go back to Roger That, and spends a solid hour and a half staring at his closet on the fourth day before Natasha throws a pair of socks at him and tells him to just find something to wear before she forces him into her leotard. Eventually he goes with darker jeans than usual and a hoodie without holes, and she says he doesn’t look like he’s going to rob the place. Thank God. If he’s going back to a place he has no business being and not even planning on buying anything, Bucky’s damn well going to dress as nice as he can, even if his wardrobe is limited to whatever has pockets deep enough to hide an entire arm inside.

“Look who it is,” Steve says when Bucky walks in, looking up from where he’s sitting behind the desk. He doesn’t get up, but he smiles as Bucky approaches. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky doesn’t really want to explain that he’s only here because his psychologist told him to go. “I don’t have much else to do,” he says. That much, at least, is the truth.

“So we’re your last resort,” Steve says. “Nice.” But he seems more amused than offended. “You wanna look around?”

Bucky nods. “I don’t—I don’t really know where to start, though,” he admits. “Do you guys have anything new since the last time I was here?”

“Sure. Tony!” Bucky flinches when Steve shouts, with a surprising amount of volume for such a small guy.

A man comes out of the back room within thirty seconds, wearing a name tag on his shirt that says TONY, and in smaller letters, CAT CARETAKER. “Yeah?”

“Uh—” Steve hesitates. “It’s Bucky, isn’t it?”

Bucky nods.

“Can you show Bucky around?” Steve asks Tony. “He was here about two weeks ago and he wants to see what else we’ve added since then.”

Bucky glances at Tony, who glances back. He wishes it could be Steve leading him around, because Steve’s the one who knows that Bucky knows nothing. Tony has a ridiculous haircut and a face that looks like he sneers a lot. He also looks about as thrilled as Bucky feels. But Steve doesn’t really give either of them a choice, so when Tony heads deeper into the gallery, Bucky follows.

“All our new stuff is way in the back,” Tony says, setting a quick pace through the rooms. Bucky glimpses the orange-moon painting as they go by. “There’s not too much.” He glances back at Bucky in an appraising sort of way. Bucky grips his notebook tighter, like a shield.

When they get to the back room, Tony gives Bucky a rundown of the new pieces, listing off their titles and the artists’ names, as well as a range of prices. About halfway through, Bucky realizes he should maybe look interested, but then he runs into the problem of how the hell to write things down in a notebook with only one hand. After a few seconds of panic he sits down on the bench in the middle of the room and balances the notebook on his knee before taking out his pen. He realizes then that Tony has stopped talking. He looks up.

Tony’s watching him thoughtfully. What looks like the beginning of a sneer is playing around his mouth. “Do you have something against art?” he asks bluntly.

Bucky stares at him. “Christ,” he says, “what the hell is it with you guys? You got some kind of radar or something?”

“It goes ding when there’s bullshit,” Tony quips. The sneer is firmly in place now, at odds with his easy tone. “So what are you really here for?”

The question strikes Bucky as distinctly unprofessional, and he sets his jaw. “I like the cat,” he says, the first thing he can think of, because the cat has just sauntered in behind Tony.

Tony looks around and watches as the cat jumps up to sit next to Bucky. “He’s my cat, actually,” he says unnecessarily, pointing to his name tag.

It’s the obvious posturing that drives Bucky to reach out and pet the cat. He reaches around the collar and reads the little tag: JARVIS. “Cute,” he says, just as Jarvis starts rubbing his face against Bucky’s pants.

Tony looks outraged. “He’s not for sale,” he says. “And he’s microchipped, so don’t get any ideas.”

“Sure, buddy.” It’s Bucky’s turn to smirk.

With what appears to be a conscious effort, Tony uncrosses his arms. “Art,” he says, as if it’s a reminder. “Are you interested in anything you’ve seen?”

“I’m thinking about it.” Bucky strokes Jarvis’s ears. “I liked the look of that big one a few rooms back.”

“Did you,” Tony says. “Well, come on.” Jarvis jumps down to follow him out of the room with his tail in the air, and all three of them go back to the orange moon. “This one?” Tony asks.

“Yeah.” And Bucky stands there staring at the painting and looking pensive until Tony leaves, telling him to come up front if he has any questions. Then he sits on the bench and pulls out the notebook again.

He has no idea what Sam is expecting this exercise to produce. _Grand Canyon,_ he writes, just to put something on the page. He looks at the painting again and tries to see something other than the moon, but he can only make out a shape that might be a subway train, except it’s in the sky. The difficulty is compounded by the way the one-line style makes it all blur. He doesn’t feel that sensation in his chest this time, though, and he’s still a little riled up from dealing with Tony.

After fifteen minutes of staring between the painting and his mostly-blank sheet of paper, Bucky gives up. He shoves the pen back in his pocket and goes back to the front room, where Steve is still sitting behind the desk and Tony is, mercifully, nowhere to be seen. “Hey,” he says, coming over to the desk.

“Hey.” Steve stops typing. “How’d it go? Find anything you like?”

“Yeah, there was… there was some good stuff.” Bucky honestly can’t remember most of what was in the back room. He feels like Steve probably knows this. “I still kind of have a thing for that one we looked at last time, um, with the orange moon?”

Steve nods. “Nice choice.”

Suddenly Bucky’s afraid that Steve is expecting him to buy it. “Do you know what’s going on with that one?” he asks. “I mean, I like it, but I don’t think I really get it. Or even know what it’s supposed to be.”

True to form, Steve says, “It’s supposed to be whatever you want it to be.” Then, like he can see how much this irritates Bucky, he shrugs. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know either. It’s untitled, too, which is a big help.” He grins. “You like it, though! What about it?”

“Good question,” Bucky says, laughing in spite of himself. Sam should meet this guy. “I was trying to think of the reason, but I couldn’t really put my finger on it.”

“Well, give it some time.” Steve starts looking at his computer again, apparently checking things between the screen and the papers on the desk, and Bucky’s just starting to think he should probably leave when Steve says, “I hope Tony didn’t freak you out.”

“Not too badly.” Bucky is surprised to see that Steve, when he glances up again, looks embarrassed. “Is he always so…?”

“Self-satisfied?” Steve suggests. “It grows on you, believe it or not.”

“Huh. I was gonna say ‘possessive.’”

Steve grimaces. “Was it about the gallery or his cat?”

“The cat,” Bucky confirms. “I think he thought I was going to steal him.” Steve smirks. “Does Tony own the gallery?”

“No,” Steve says, “I do. Which makes Tony defending its honor sort of awkward.”

“But he’s r—I mean, it is a nice place.” Bucky feels his face grow hot.

“Thanks,” Steve replies, giving him a skeptical glance. “You still don’t look too happy to be here, though.” He’s smiling, so Bucky’s pretty sure he’s not offended. But then he says, “You really don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to. Like I said last time, I won’t be mad.”

Bucky blinks at him. The serious way that Steve’s frowning makes it seem like he’s actually concerned about what Bucky’s doing—like he’s not even interested in him as a customer. Or maybe he’s just trying to make room for people who will actually buy things. That doesn’t seem like Steve’s style, though, from what Bucky’s seen of him. Steve, he thinks, actually does care. And then he remembers what Sam asked. _What’s your criteria?_

Might as well start somewhere. Even thinking of saying it—saying anything—his stomach churns. But he opens his mouth anyway. “I kind of do have to stick around,” Bucky admits, aware that he’s sweating with sudden nerves. He hears his voice too loud in his ears and feels like he’s on a speeding train. “It’s—it’s a kind of therapy, I guess. For veterans.”

Even this, which is practically nothing, leaves Bucky with his heart pounding. Glancing at Steve, he sees the same look of mixed surprise and guilt that he sees on everyone else. He knows what’s coming next. “Don’t say ‘thanks for your service,’” he says quickly.

Steve flushes and looks down. “I wasn’t going to.” After a moment of tense silence, he says, “I don’t know what _to_ say.”

Bucky hates the way Steve’s avoiding his eyes now, the new caution in his voice. He doesn’t like it when strangers do this: he can’t stand it with Steve, who he’s sure, though they’ve only met twice, is rarely ever careful. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I haven’t changed in the last thirty seconds.”

Except he has, in a way. He sees it in Steve’s expression. Steve bites his lip. “When I said you had, um, an art appreciation block, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says. He’s so desperate to move on that the words come out harsh, and he makes himself smile. “I mean it.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles, still sounding mortified.

Bucky suppresses a sigh. “You were right, though,” he points out. “And I hope you were serious about showing me what’s so great about art. Not like, professionally,” he rushes, “not like counseling or anything, just—you seem like you have a lot to say about it.” He’s still thrumming with leftover adrenaline and he clenches his hands into fists in his pockets to steady himself.

Steve snorts. “Is that a nice way of saying I never shut up?” He’s smiling back now.

“Well, when you put it that way…”

“Thanks,” Steve says dryly. He breathes out sharp and looks at his hands, types a few more lines on the computer and then sits back. Bucky can see the moment when he makes a conscious decision to stop being embarrassed, or at least to try. “I’d love to go back with you,” he says, “have a real conversation about some of the stuff we’ve got, but today’s not a super great day for walking. Since we’re sharing,” he says, with his smile turning crooked, “and just so we’re even, I have scoliosis.”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to go red, even though he doesn’t think he’s actually done anything to feel bad about. “Okay,” he says, not knowing what else to say.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Now I feel stupid.” He laughs. “Is that stupid?”

Bucky resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “Probably a little, but the feeling’s mutual.”

“Ugh.” Steve shakes his head. “Actually, though, um, everything else aside, I’m not even a qualified teacher—”

Bucky waves a dismissive hand. “Not an issue. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, either.”

Steve grins. “Then maybe we can work something out.”

When Bucky arrives three days later, at four o’clock in the cloudy afternoon as agreed upon, there’s someone else behind the desk, sitting at the computer but apparently doodling all over an important-looking sheet. He leans back in his chair as Bucky approaches. “Are you Bucky?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, surprised.

“Shit.” The guy glances at the computer screen. “Steve said he was expecting you, but he’s not here yet.” He gets up, holds out his hand. “I’m Clint. Nice to meet you.” Bucky shakes his hand. “You can hang out up here if you want to wait,” Clint offers, “or, I don’t know, if you want to look around I can send him back when he gets here.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says. “I’ll go walk around a little, I think.” Clint nods and sits back down, and Bucky heads into the gallery, walking straight past the orange moon and going to the very back, where Tony showed him the new things. He makes an effort to pay attention this time, unsurprised that it’s easier without Tony giving him sideways glances every two seconds.

There’s a sketch of a beach and foamy waves, not much bigger than a square foot. Bucky stands close and admires the way the simple lines make it look like the water is actually moving, the tide coming in. It makes him think of a poem, one he can barely remember—Hemingway, maybe.

A soft sound makes Bucky look around, and he sees Jarvis the cat padding over to him. He crouches down and reaches out one hand, clicking his tongue. “C’mere, bud.” After a second’s hesitation, Jarvis butts his head against Bucky’s fingers. His fur is soft, his nose unexpectedly hard and pointed.

Then Jarvis wanders over to Bucky’s other side and starts nosing at his clothes, all while still arching his back when Bucky pets him. “What?” Bucky says. “I’m already petting you.” Glancing toward the door to check that there’s no one watching, he takes his left hand out of his pocket to let Jarvis inspect it. Jarvis switches from nosing at the pocket to nosing at Bucky’s hand, apparently undeterred by the cold metal. He nudges the silver fingers, then seems to give up, giving Bucky a stare as if to ask why he’s stopped petting him.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, smiling, and hesitantly places his left hand against Jarvis’s fur. He can’t feel it, but Jarvis doesn’t appear to mind. He arches his back again—maybe he likes the feeling of the metal plates and ridges. Bucky’s eyes suddenly burn and his throat feels tight. He stares up at the bright lights and takes a deep breath as he hears Jarvis start purring.

“Bucky?” comes Steve’s voice.

Bucky whips his hand back so quickly that Jarvis runs off. He stands up and hopes his face isn’t too red, though he feels like his cheeks are fairly warm. “I’m in here,” he calls.

Steve appears in the doorway. If he notices anything out of the ordinary, he doesn’t mention it, just says, “Sorry I’m late. I missed my train—you know.”

Bucky nods, though he doesn’t, since the last time he was in the subway he nearly passed out. “Don’t worry about it. I haven’t been here for too long.” He still feels a little out of breath, his eyes not quite dry, and turns to look at the sketch of the beach again. “This one’s really, um, cool.”

“Yeah, it is,” Steve agrees, not commenting on the horrible inadequacy of Bucky’s art vocabulary. “I like how it’s so streamlined, don’t you?”

“Like every line’s supposed to be there.” Bucky hesitates. “It looks almost real,” he admits, somehow embarrassed. “I don’t know.”

“No, I know what you mean,” Steve says. “Like that poem, right? _Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me as I gaze upon the sea.”_

“You’re kidding,” Bucky says, turning to stare at him. “I was just thinking about that. It’s—what, Hemingway?”

“Longfellow.” Steve grins and rubs his nose. “I don’t remember the rest.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “me neither. I can’t believe I remember any of it at all, to be honest. Haven’t touched Longfellow since high school.”

“Where was that?” Steve asks. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not far from here, actually. You know what they say—Brooklyn, born and raised.”

“I’d make fun of you for not traveling,” Steve says, “but I’m kind of in the same boat.” Then he bites his lip. “Shit. I guess you did some traveling—um, I’m—”

“No,” Bucky says, “God, it’s not a big deal.” He smiles, trying to break the tension. “You’re right, though, I really didn’t go far outside of the service. I went to Connecticut right after I got back, my sister moved there, but then I figured maybe coming back home would be better.” Bucky shrugs. “Still waiting to see if I made the right choice.”

Steve takes this in with a nod.

“So you’re from Brooklyn too?” Bucky asks quickly.

“Yeah.” Steve gives a noncommittal jerk of his head. “I’ve got a good situation here,” he says, “it works for me. And I don’t know where else I’d go, to be honest. I like the city.”

“Maybe Paris,” Bucky suggests, “if you want to be a real artist.”

“Excuse me?” Steve raises his eyebrows. “Passively accepting insults does not come included in my services.” Then he crosses his arms. “Although you know, all the _real artists_ say that the best way to learn about art is to make some yourself.”

Bucky imagines that, painting or drawing or sculpting. All of it takes two hands, or at least a functioning brain. “Maybe some other time,” he says.

“Sure.” But for the first time, Steve looks a little disappointed.

Bucky tries to make up for it by coming back a few days later, and he is directed by Clint to where Steve is busy organizing a file cabinet in a back studio-turned-office—but not so busy, he says, that he can’t talk. So even though he’s a little hesitant, Bucky sits down on the extra chair.

And they do talk. That day and for a week that blurs into two that blurs into a month, Bucky shows up at the gallery and they talk about nothing in particular. The cat, the weather, new art, stupid movies they both watched as kids. Bucky learns to know what it means when Steve doesn’t stand up to say hi. He learns that Tony is a little less insufferable if his cat likes you enough. He learns that Clint is liable to say rude things in ASL behind others’ backs, and that everyone else understands what he’s signing and won’t hesitate to throw things at him.

Bucky brings in drinks one day, opening the door with his back while carrying the cups in a cardboard holder. He sets them down on the desk and looks over to Steve—but Steve isn’t there. Instead a woman is sitting there, typing away, and she glances at him and smiles. “Can I help you?”

“Um,” Bucky says, “I’m looking for Steve.”

The woman stops typing and turns to him. “He’s not in,” she says. Her accent is crisp, English, and her words a little clipped, as if she’s impatient. “He’ll be back in half an hour, though, so you’re welcome to wait.”

Bucky looks at his drinks; if they’re not cold already, they will be by the time Steve gets here. He had to bring them from farther away than he would have liked because the place nearby was closed. Sighing, he takes one. “I’ll wait,” he says. “Do you want this one?”

The woman gives him a skeptical look. “Do you always carry coffee?” she asks. “In case some poor woman looks like she could use a drink? It’s not a very good pick-up prop.” She’s smiling at him by the end, though, and doesn’t really seem to mean any of it. A second later, she takes the cup. “Was it for Steve?” she asks.

“Maybe,” Bucky shoots back. He takes a sip and burns his tongue, but keeps his face impassive.

“Because he doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Funnily enough, I got him a hot chocolate.” Bucky shrugs. “Lucky guess.”

She snorts and takes off the lid. “Are you a friend of Steve’s?” she asks, blowing on her drink.

Bucky hesitates a moment, trying to figure out what she means by _friend_ —there’s something in her expression that makes him think there’s something else. He manages not to blush through sheer force of will. “Yeah, kind of,” he says. “I’ve been coming here for a while and we, uh, we talk… so, yeah, I suppose we’re friends.” He pauses. The woman isn’t wearing a name tag. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he says coolly, “who are you?”

She glances down and seems surprised, but not in the least bothered. “I’m Peggy,” she says, “I’m Steve’s—”

“Ex, yeah, he mentioned you.”

“I would have said that I’m his very good friend.” Peggy has a very disconcerting gaze, Bucky thinks, easy to notice because she makes eye contact and holds it. But that’s only part of it. She has a way of looking at you that feels like she sees more than most people. He’s not sure if it’s good or bad. “And I know who you are, too,” Peggy adds.

Bucky realizes he’s staring a little himself and blinks. “You do?” He wants to demand to know why she asked whether he and Steve were friends, if she already recognized him—setting aside the fact that he’s never seen her before—but he has a nasty feeling it was a test, in hindsight. Or reconnaissance at the very least.

“Only because Steve’s mentioned you as well. It’s Bucky, isn’t it?” She smiles at his frown, all innocence, but he can sense the steel behind it now “What? Does it bother you to be talked about?”

What a loaded question. “I haven’t done much worth talking about,” Bucky tells her. “I just kind of show up. Waste his time.” He grins, trying to recover from the sensation that he’s being X-rayed. “He’s probably told you that I know as much about art as a three-year-old.”

Peggy chuckles, but shakes her head. “Actually, no, he didn’t say anything about that.”

Bucky’s so surprised that he doesn’t respond for a moment, and he expects Peggy to elaborate, but she stays quiet. He sips his coffee and asks in what he hopes is a casual tone, “So, what _did_ he say, then?”

The look Peggy gives him says that she isn’t fooled. She contemplates her hot chocolate for a moment, lips pursed, before she speaks. “He only said that you seemed quiet,” she says, “and that he likes talking to you.” She sounds reluctant now, somehow.

Bucky looks down and tries not to smile too widely. It’s pathetic, honestly, how thrilled he is to hear this, because it’s such a small compliment and not even one he didn’t already suspect. But he’s suddenly struggling not to beam and takes another drink of coffee, too large, and coughs. When he surfaces, Peggy is smirking slightly, typing away again.

Steve arrives in half an hour, exactly when Peggy said he would. “Hey, Pegs,” he says, and then sees Bucky. “Were you waiting?” he asks.

Behind him, Bucky hears Peggy surreptitiously removing the empty cups from the desk. “Yeah,” he says, “but the company was good.”

Peggy leans forward on her elbows. “Will Clint be able to make it in,” she asks, “or do you need me to stay?”

“He’ll be here soon,” Steve tells her. “You can go.”

“All right, then.” Bucky watches as she puts her notebook into her bag and pulls her earbuds out in a tangle, clicks a few things on the computer, and comes out from behind the desk. He feels slightly intrusive but there’s not really anywhere for him to go. Not even anywhere else to look.

So he sees it when Peggy smiles at Steve and he smiles back. “You’re still coming on Friday?” she asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Steve replies. He gives Peggy a hug and receives a kiss on the cheek.

Logically, Bucky knows that there can’t be anything between Steve and Peggy: he still remembers the way Steve laughed weeks ago when he first asked if they were together. In any case, she’s engaged. But Bucky’s surprised at what he feels, watching them embrace. Not jealousy. It’s a surprisingly acute sensation, a tightness in his chest, a rush of heat over his cheeks. Suddenly he is very glad that Natasha isn’t around to see this. She’d read his expression at once and never let him hear the end of it.

Steve turns around as Peggy walks out of the door, the little bell tinkling. Bucky knows he’s blushing now—and he also thinks that Steve might see it, because there’s a half-second where Steve pauses, looking as if he’s about to say something. But he must change his mind, because he goes around the desk and sits down before he speaks. “Did Peggy say anything awful about me?”

Bucky laughs. “No, but she drank your hot chocolate.”

“Sounds like her.” Steve grins. He’s logging into the computer but he’s watching Bucky. “You don’t have to bring me drinks, you know,” he says. “I’d spend time with you anyways.”

Well, he’s definitely blushing now. “I know.”

Steve takes pity on him and says, “Thanks, though. I’ll buy next time, since I missed you—what kind of coffee do you like?”

“Black,” Bucky says, and watches as Steve wrinkles his nose. “Excuse me for wanting my bean water to taste like what it is.”

“Watch it.” Steve points a warning finger at Bucky. “I own this place, I can kick you out.”

Bucky raises one hand in his own defense. “Christ, you run a tight ship.”

Steve snorts. “It’s funny you should say that. I spent half the morning trying to convince Clint that it’s okay if he can’t make his afternoon shift. I can just come in for him. But he insisted, even though he’s probably coming down with something.”

“Is this gallery your whole life or something?”

“Well, you know, starting a business isn’t the easiest thing in the world,” Steve tells him. “It’s a commitment. I have a responsibility.” He narrows his eyes. “And by the way, you show up here a hell of a lot. Are you sure it’s not _your_ whole life?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. It’s even funnier because he would never have imagined that he’d spend so much time in a place like this. He still doesn’t even really like art. “No, seriously, though.” He shakes his head. “What do you do when you’re not here?”

Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. He glances up to meet Bucky’s eyes, then looks away, and then back again. “I get hot chocolate sometimes,” he says.

Bucky laughs. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought a drink here for you,” he says. “I don’t want to support your workaholic lifestyle.”

“You’ll just have to go to a coffee shop with me, then,” Steve replies.

Bucky is about to make a joke when the truth of it hits him, and he stops with his mouth hanging open. A second passes before he remembers to close it. His stomach seems to be turning inside-out. “Are you asking me out?” he demands, frowning.

“Yeah,” Steve says in that easy way he has, smiling, holding his gaze.

And damn if Bucky doesn’t feel stupid now for wondering if Steve thought of him as a friend. It’s nice to have confirmation—he almost giggles, high-pitched and giddy—and it’s even nicer to know that his own strange agony of wrong-footedness and chest pains isn’t misdirected. He allows himself a brief heartbeat of relief before reality intrudes. “Wow,” Bucky says, “I’m—um, flattered.” Already, Steve is looking unsure. Nice job, Barnes, way to be an asshole. “It’s—fuck. It’s complicated.” That’s even worse. Bucky rubs one hand over his face.

“Look,” Steve says, sounding horribly stiff and brave, “I was just asking, but if you’re not—”

“I am interested,” Bucky rushes. “I just don’t—I don’t think it’s a good time. For me,” he adds. “I’m not really—you don’t want to date me.” Is that making assumptions, going too far? “Or have hot chocolate or whatever with me,” he amends. “I’m kind of awful at everything beyond small talk.”

Steve has gone deep red and looks like he’d like to bury his face in his hands as well or possibly disappear, which Bucky can sympathize with. “That’s kind of bullshit,” he says, “’cause we’ve been doing everything _except_ getting a drink together for almost a month now, but whatever. It’s fine, I get it.” He gives Bucky another smile.

Apart from his own embarrassment and regret, Bucky hates seeing it mirrored on Steve’s face. “I really would love to—you know,” he says. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do.” He feels like his mouth has disconnected from his brain. “I just can’t.”

“I get it,” Steve says again. He sounds like he’s trying very hard to get it. “I just, um, I hope we can still be friends?” He gives a little shrug, like he knows how cliché and dumb it sounds.

But Bucky’s glad he asked. “Yeah,” he says, too quickly. “I’d like that.”

Steve nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” He smiles again. It looks more genuine now, still strained, but less like a grimace. “Sounds like a plan.”

That’s one way of putting it. Bucky snorts. His heart is still beating much too fast, and he knows that Steve is mostly avoiding his gaze, looking somewhere between his eyes and a point a foot over his head. “So I’ll, um, I’ll come by on Monday, maybe?” he says.

Steve jumps on the suggestion. “Sure,” he says, “yes, definitely.” He makes a convulsive movement like he wants to cover his mouth with his hand.

“Cool,” Bucky says, turns on his heel, and walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for alcohol.

All the way back to the apartment—almost an hour’s walk—Bucky runs over the conversation in his head. He’s aware that it can only have lasted about five minutes at most, but it feels like five hours, and the constant replay means that by the time he rides the elevator up and lets himself in the door, he’s half-convinced that Steve will never want to look at him again.

Natasha is face-down on the couch when Bucky comes in. She says something that might be a greeting, but comes out too muffled to be understood. “Can't hear you,” Bucky tells her, sitting down on the floor and leaning back against the front of the couch.

She must turn her head to one side, because her next words are clearer. “I said happy Friday.”

“Thank God, et cetera?”

“I thought the week would never end,” she sighs.

Bucky gives a hollow laugh, which he hears as if his voice is coming from far away. “Tell me about it.”

There's a pause. “I get the feeling your week was worse than mine,” Natasha says. “What gives? I thought you had something nice planned for today.”

“I did.”

“The art gallery, right? That one you're always going to?” Natasha pauses. “With that guy—? Steve?”

Bucky sighs. “He asked me out.”

Natasha sits up so quickly that her elbow hits him in the back of the head. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“And I said no,” Bucky continues heavily.

“What?” Natasha demands. Then she's silent for a few moments. When she speaks again, her voice is calmer, softer. There's no pity, though, for which Bucky is grateful. “Why?” she asks.

Bucky leans his head back so he's staring up at her. The orange-red of her hair blurs around her face. “Can you picture me going out with anyone?” he asks. “Going to a nice restaurant? Going dancing in some club?”

“No,” she allows, “but I can see you going to the movies or spending a day in the park.” She shakes her head. “Anyways, that isn't really the point, is it? You clearly like him, you never shut up about him.”

Shoving at her knee, Bucky says, “I can’t even do hugs. How could I do—anything else?”

Natasha purses her lips. Her disapproving expression is no less formidable upside-down. “If he's as great as you say he is, do you really think he'd mind?”

Bucky stares at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Barnes, I rarely say this, but maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt.” She shrugs. “Seems like he cares about you. Maybe you should trust him.”

Lifting his head again, Bucky turns around so he’s looking at her upright. “Like you’re so good at doing that.”

She’s silent, her jaw clenched. “Fine,” she says at last, “but you don’t get to whine about it.”

“I’m not whining,” Bucky says automatically, and she hits his head, on purpose this time, when she gets up from the couch. “I’m not!” he says to her back as she goes into the kitchen. “I just—feel bad about it.” His face burns again. “He was being so nice.”

Natasha opens a cupboard. “What did you say, anyways?” she asks, her voice slightly muffled. “Were you rude?”

God, Bucky hopes not. “I don’t think I made a lot of sense,” he admits. “I mean, that’s kind of par for the course—”

“—ever since they scrambled our brains, yeah—”

“—but maybe I should’ve given him more of an explanation than _I just can’t.”_

When Natasha turns around, she’s holding a bottle and two shot glasses. “Yeah, maybe,” she agrees, smiling like she knows how unhelpful she’s being. “So are you going to explain yourself properly sometime? Or are you going to act all wooden around him forever?”

“Good question.” Bucky takes the vodka she hands him. “He said he still wanted to be friends, but I don’t know.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “If you’re that much of an idiot, I can’t really help you,” she says. “Drink up.”

Bucky contemplates his glass. “Vodka, just for an awkward afternoon? Doesn’t this make you an enabler or something?”

“It’s called self-medication.”

What the hell. Bucky drinks.

—

When Bucky walks into the art gallery on Monday, Steve looks up from the desk, then shoots to his feet. “Wait just one second,” he says, and hurries into the back room. When he comes back he’s carrying a mug of coffee. “I swear this isn’t any kind of come-on,” he says, handing the mug to Bucky. “I just felt kind of bad because you brought drinks last time, and I wasn’t even there, so—”

“So you made me coffee?” Bucky asks. “In your own mug?” The one he’s holding has an emblem stamped on the side, some kind of blocky eagle in a circle.

Steve shrugs and sits back down, taking a sip from a second mug, already half-empty. “We have a whole collection in the back. Whoever works the morning shift has to have some kind of coping mechanism.”

“Fair point.” For about six seconds, there’s silence between them, and even that is more than Bucky can bear. “Hey,” he says, a sharp exhalation. “About last week—”

Holding up one hand, Steve shakes his head. “It’s cool,” he says. Then he grins. “I mean, it’s fucking awkward, but that’ll pass, right?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Will it?”

“Of course it will.”

“Hm.” Bucky takes a sip, then pauses.

“Oh,” Steve says belatedly. “I put in some cream.”

“Aw, no.” Bucky takes another drink of the coffee and grimaces. “I don’t know if I can let this slide.” It’s honestly not so bad, but he smirks at the apologetic look on Steve’s face.

And of course Steve sees him laughing, and laughs with him.

They agree to meet again in a few days, not at the gallery this time—at the Met. Apparently Steve thinks that if Bucky wants an art education, he should look at the real stuff. “Not that what we have isn’t real,” he rushes to add, looking both embarrassed and adamant at the same time. “But maybe what really gets you going is Caravaggio. You look like a Caravaggio kind of guy.”

Bucky tells this to Natasha, laughing, and she looks him dead in the eyes. “That sounds like a date.”

“It’s not a date,” he tells her, disturbed. “It’s a lesson. It’s like your ballet.”

She snorts. “Maybe. I guess if he’s comparing you to Caravaggio—that’s not really a pick-up line.”

Bucky looks up Caravaggio later. He hopes Steve’s not comparing him to the actual artist, though the paintings themselves aren’t much better. He doesn’t really like the look of them, so vivid, with deep shadows, reds and yellows that look like they’re flickering in the dim light of candles. He stares at _[David with the Head of Goliath](http://www.caravaggio.org/david-with-the-head-of-goliath.jsp)_ for so long that he loses track of the time, unable to look away from the shapes emerging out of the darkness.

—

He wakes up on time. “You’re going to be late,” Natasha predicts, already putting on her shoes as he stumbles into the shower. Bucky ignores her and gets ready, eating breakfast in the peaceable quiet of the apartment. She’s left her cereal bowl on the counter, running late herself before teaching, and he washes it out for her along with his own.

He pulls up the route to the Met one more time before he leaves. It’s a two-hour walk and he thinks it’ll even be nice today, if he can get his brain to stop flipping out at every barking dog and if the crowds aren’t too bad. It’s not rush hour. He should be all right.

And then he sees the construction, marked on the screen in little orange triangles all over his route. The alternate directions will take at least an hour longer. Bucky refreshes the page, tries typing in different details, but it all comes up the same. And he doesn’t _have_ three hours—at this point he barely has two.

His first thought is to call Steve and tell him that he can’t make it, but like the idiot he is, he never got Steve’s number. He can’t call the gallery, because Steve has today off; that’s the reason they’re even able to meet today. All right, he reasons, he’ll just stay home and explain tomorrow when Steve is working again. Bucky sits back, guilty but decided. And then he thinks of Steve waiting at the museum, wearing his too-big clothes and looking around for Bucky. His face falling in disappointment.

“Shit,” Bucky says aloud, and jumps to his feet. He pulls on a jacket and shoves a baseball cap on his head, his heart already pounding a little with what he’s about to do. He hasn’t taken the subway since his disastrous first attempt months ago, hasn’t been in a car except when it’s unavoidable. With his hand on the doorknob, Bucky hesitates. Maybe he should take a taxi. But then he thinks of the sounds of traffic, the close container of the car, and guesses that it’d be worse than the subway. He locks the door behind himself and leaves the building.

It’s all right, descending the steps. Easier than he thought, considering how just the thought of doing this ties his stomach in knots. The light underground isn’t harsh—the yellow glow is even a little comforting. He jumps when the train comes thundering into the station, screeching and creating a hot wind that makes his hair flutter against his neck. He doesn’t get on that train, which is packed full. The next one, though, has more room. When the doors slide shut behind him, he grips the metal pole like his life depends on it.

As soon as the train starts moving, Bucky begins to sweat. The noise is muted, thank God, but it’s still a sharp report, loud enough that he keeps twisting his head as if he’ll be able to identify the source. The other people in the car are reading or on their phones, and half of them have earbuds in. Nobody pays him any attention. Are they really that unbothered by the sound?

Still, he manages to take even breaths, even if he swallows a million times a minute and feels like something is trying to jump out of his throat. Bucky sits down on the hard plastic seat, still with his hand wrapped around the pole. He sways with the motion of the train. Closing his eyes, he forces himself to inhale, exhale, inhale. The lights flicker oddly through his eyelids. Someone shouts—strident, jarring. Every muscle in Bucky’s body tenses and he opens his eyes, staring.

It’s only a kid, some teenager whose friend just got on the train. They’re talking loudly and laughing with each other, and their voices grate on Bucky’s ears. He breathes out sharply, feeling the air scrape his throat, and sucks it in again. He smells leather. It fills his nose, a living thing, a stench that enters his mouth and seeps down his throat, and then he isn’t breathing air anymore. It’s water. It’s his own blood. His right hand clenches around metal, hard. The shouts continue—they blend with the sound of gunfire, a dull pounding that builds against Bucky’s pulse screaming in his ears.

The train glides to a stop and Bucky gets to his feet, walks woodenly out and up until he’s on the street. Bile rises in his throat but he forces it down, still unseeing, aware only of the free air and warm sun. He can’t take another step; his knees have locked, and he’s being buffeted by the stream of people and all the things bumping into him make his nerves sing but trapped inside his head he can’t move away. Behind his eyes, panic squeezes tight.

Someone rushes past Bucky and knocks him sideways, into a railing. The blow is shocking—it sends a sunburst of alarm through his mind—but in the sudden search for the cause, the street snaps back into existence. Cars, dogs, tall buildings hemming in. There’s still the static in his ears and the constant thrumming at the edge of his vision, but Bucky can move his legs, with only one thought in his mind. Less of a thought, more of a wild need. _Move._

The next sound he hears is the apartment door clicking shut behind him, and he stumbles through to Natasha’s bedroom, collapsing at the far side and drawing his knees up to his chest, his back pressed as far into the corner as he can go. The sounds are gone—the clanking, the whirring machinery—and the room is dark, but his heart hammers painfully in his throat and he can hear his own blood rushing, the creaking of his bones as his muscles grow ever-tenser.

That’s where Natasha finds him, palms flat against the floor and blood on his face from biting his lip. She stands in the doorway and watches him, her face guarded. “Barnes? You—?”

Bucky cracks open his mouth. His jaw is so tense that he’s surprised his teeth are intact. “Natasha.”

Cautiously, she comes forward, her movements slow. A few feet from him she stops again. “Do you know where you are?” she asks. When he just blinks at her, she says, “Look around. Do you remember this stuff?”

It’s all he can do to follow her advice, but Bucky moves his eyes, forces himself to identify the bed, the lights strung up over the ceiling, the jumble of clothes spilling off of the chair. He inhales, easier now that his heart isn’t beating quite so fast, and smells the familiar mix of chalk and citrus shampoo. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“Tell me where,” she says, softly but firmly.

“Your bedroom,” Bucky says. “Brooklyn. I don’t—” He stops, swallows.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Can I come a little closer?”

Bucky lifts his hands and bends his fingers with difficulty. There’s a tear in the carpet where his metal fingers cut the fabric. He nods.

Natasha gets down on her knees when she’s right beside him. “Let’s clean your face,” she says. “You can eat something if you want.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna help you up,” she says, “is that all right?”

“I got it.” Bucky isn’t at all sure that he’s got it, but he doesn’t think he can stand anyone touching him right now. He reaches out with his human hand and grasps the nightstand, pulls himself up, his back still braced against the wall. Natasha turns around and walks out, into the kitchen, leaving him to follow. He does after a moment, and falls into a chair at the table.

She wets a spare washcloth under the faucet and comes back, sits next to him. For a second she holds up the cloth like she’s about to dab at his face herself, but maybe Bucky looks horrified, or maybe she just realizes. She stops and holds the cloth out to him. He takes it and gingerly sponges at his chin, his lip, wincing when the fabric touches the torn flesh. The tension slowly begins to seep out of his muscles, like sand draining from an hourglass.

Natasha switches between watching him and tracing designs on the tabletop. She’s still in her practice clothes, leggings, a light jacket. Her hair sticks to her forehead in dried, sweaty strands. Bucky notices all this abstractly. He only really looks at her when she says, “You missed a spot,” and motions to the place on her own face. When he’s done she takes the cloth and rinses it in the sink. Then she sits back down and asks, looking at the table, “Do you want to talk or do you want to be alone?”

Sam’s voice pops into Bucky’s head. _Get support._ He drilled that line into Bucky at every session for the first month and a half, no matter how strongly Bucky resisted, how much he felt that there was no support to be had. “I just,” Bucky says. His voice sounds rough, and he gets up and goes over to the cabinet. Gets a glass, fills it with water. The motions are simple but they ground him, and the water feels good in his mouth. “I tried to take the subway,” he says. “I couldn’t—it was—”

“I know,” Natasha says, and it sounds so dark and sad that he turns around. She’s looking at her hands.

“You don’t know,” Bucky snaps. “You take the subway every day.”

“And it scares the shit out of me.”

“But you do it.” Bucky shudders, convulsive, as the memory of the swaying, rattling car presses on his thoughts. He holds the heels of his hands to his closed eyelids and fights the urge to heave with something that could be nausea or a sob. “How the fuck do you do it?” he demands, staring into the darkness.

Natasha’s quiet. “I don’t know,” she says at last. “I had to work on it. And it’s not like I—there are things I _can’t_ do, too.”

“It felt like,” Bucky says, and shakes his head. He pushes off of the counter. “I’m gonna—go lie down.” And he does. He goes into his own dark bedroom and stretches out on the bed, not even bothering to pull the covers over his body. When he opens his eyes again the sky behind the curtains is a deep, inky purple-blue. The clock beside his bed reads two-fifteen in the morning.

Every muscle aches, and when he sits up, his head pounds. He stumbles stiff-legged into the kitchen and downs another glass of water, and then holds the cool glass against his forehead. He’s still sweaty, and it’s disgusting, but he doesn’t think he can face a shower right now. He wants to bleach his brain. But in lieu of that, he goes to the couch and falls sideways across it, passed out again before his body hits the cushions.

In the morning he wakes, sudden as a gunshot, to find Natasha sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast and staring at him. She looks surprised to see him conscious. “How are you feeling?” she asks, swallowing.

Bucky shakes his head.

“You want me to stay home?” There’s a darkness in her expression, and Bucky remembers the early days when her wounds were fresh too—when they would sit up together at night, not talking, just sharing the room. Afraid of what it meant to be alone.

He shakes his head again.

She watches him for another moment or two like she doesn’t quite believe him, but then she nods. She puts her plate in the sink. “There’s cereal in the cupboard,” she says. “Eat it if you can. And call me if you need to.”

She’s almost out the door when Bucky is able to move his mouth. “You’ll tell Bruce?” He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t want to see the expression on her face.

But he can hear it anyways in the softness of her voice. “Sure, Barnes.” She pauses. “I know he’ll understand.” She lingers a moment longer, and then he hears the door click shut.

The day vanishes in a haze. He drifts between wakefulness and—not sleep. He can never banish enough of the tightness from his limbs for that. Instead he stares at the wall until he hears the sound of machinery, and then he goes to his bedroom where the shouts and car horns from the street put a pit in his stomach, and he reads while trying to watch over his shoulder the whole time. He dozes a little after the words start to blur on the page but always ends up with his heart pounding, never quite sure why, but always with panic rising in his throat. He gives up when night falls and takes sleeping pills, which knock him out but only make it harder to escape the nightmare in the morning.

Bucky doesn’t know how long it lasts. He has a vague notion of time passing, a lot of time, a few days at least. Even when the immediate anxiety starts to recede, he’s tired. Like his bones are made of lead. The day he manages to eat an actual meal, Natasha sits across from him. “You have an appointment with Sam,” she says. “On Friday.”

After counting on his fingers, Bucky frowns. “No, that’s not until—”

“It’s the fifteenth already,” she tells him.

Bucky puts his fork down. He’s eaten most of what she put in front of him—better than the handfuls of chips that have been all he can tolerate—but now it’s like sawdust in his mouth. He counts on his fingers again. Feels his stomach sink. “I thought,” he says, “I thought it was only a few days.”

Natasha puts her hands out on the table, not reaching for him but offering anyways. “I know,” she says, “believe me.”

Despite what he said before—despite his anger, his jealousy, despite the apathy muffling everything—Bucky does believe her.

“Do you think you can go?” she asks. “I know you don’t want to.”

Bucky swallows. Cradles his head in his hands. “I didn’t know it was—this bad,” he says. “I didn’t think it would _get_ this bad.”

Natasha’s silent for a while. He knows she hates these conversations, just as he knows it has almost nothing to do with him. “I think you should talk to Sam,” she says at last. “Maybe just a shorter session. Even if—”

“No,” Bucky says. “You’re right.” He can’t muster the energy to get up from his chair or finish his food, but he feels that prickle of pride and looks up. “I mean. I don’t know how. But I want to.”

Natasha half-grins at him, uncertain. “You want me to set it up?”

Bucky nods. But the next morning he unearths his phone from where it’s fallen between the couch cushions and texts Sam. _I can’t come in on Friday but I want to talk._ He thinks after he sends the message that it’s probably a little ridiculous that he has his psychologist’s number but not Steve’s.

 _We can reschedule,_ Sam texts back. He sends a list of his openings.

Looking at the message, thinking of walking outside, Bucky feels sick. He’s barely been able to face an open window. It hasn’t been this bad since—

 _Can I just call you on Friday?_ Bucky asks. _When we would normally meet?_

 _Sure,_ Sam replies. _Let me know if anything changes. I’ll be in the office if you decide to come in._

Bucky snorts at that, and then sends another text a few minutes later. _I’ll pay the same rate._ He’s pretty sure Steve would compare it to phone sex, and is startled by how fiercely painful the thought is, especially after days of floating in a sea of vague, directionless fear. Right on the heels of that shock comes another, flooding him with guilty panic: it’s been too long, too long to leave Steve with no word and no excuses. And he _misses_ Steve, he realizes. But he drops his phone on the coffee table and leaves it there. There’s nothing he can do.

—

On Friday he nearly cancels the appointment a dozen times, and when the phone starts ringing he contemplates just letting it go. But Natasha walks into her room and gives him a meaningful look before she shuts the door, so he sighs and picks it up. “Hi.”

“Hi, Bucky,” Sam says, and damn, it’s weird to hear his voice in this messy apartment that could not be more different from the office where they usually meet. “How have things been going?”

Bucky opens his mouth and says “Fi—” fully intending to trot out his customary insistence that things have been going well, thanks, everything’s just dandy, though Sam has always seen right through it. But the words stick in his mouth. He says, “I haven’t left the apartment in a week and a half.”

“Why not?” Sam asks.

“I tried to take the subway,” Bucky tells him, just as he told Natasha the day it happened, and the confession still tastes bitter. He moves on, trying to explain. “I had a meeting with a—a friend, at the Met, but my route was full of construction. It would take too long. I had to use the train.” He shakes his head though he knows Sam can’t see. “I couldn’t do it.”

He listens hard, expecting to hear Sam sigh or make some unsurprised noise—they talked about this months and months ago, and Bucky, unwilling and stubborn, told Sam he had managed to get over it. He’d meant to, even; they’d set up a plan that he could work through with Natasha, and then with one thing and another they both made an unspoken agreement to stop. It was too much. Bucky braces for disappointment from the other end. But Sam’s voice is just calm—maybe even sympathetic—as he asks, “What happened?”

“What do you think?” Bucky says. It’s rude and he knows it but he hates this feeling, knowing he’s fucked up, that he failed. He hates that Sam knows that he hates it. “I had a panic attack.”

Now Sam does make a little noise, but Bucky can’t tell what it means. “Why don’t you describe it?” Sam asks. “The panic attack.”

It’s the last thing in the world Bucky wants to do. He’s avoided remembering it in any detail since Natasha snapped him mostly out of it—afraid that thinking about the fear will bring it all back. Not that he’s been very successful; that’s why he can’t go outside, because try as he might to ignore it, the fear finds him anyways, just as strong even if there are no freaky hallucinations to go with it. So he grits his teeth. “I guess it was—more like a flashback.” He takes a breath. “It was the sounds of the train. Like—like the one I was on, you know, in Austria. And also what they had, what they put me in. The chair.” Bucky waits for his vision to fracture again, for his thoughts to scatter into bloody pieces, but it doesn’t happen. Fear pulses low in his throat but it doesn’t hold him.

Carefully, he continues. “And then there were some kids and they were, I don’t know, shouting. I think. I remember shouting but I don’t know if—” He misses a breath, hearing it for a moment again in his ears. “I don’t think it was the kids. They were just laughing. I don’t know who I heard. Me, or—them.” Again, he shakes his head. “I felt like I was there,” he says, his chest burning. “I thought there was shooting.”

Sam is quiet for a minute, and when Bucky doesn’t say anything more, he asks, “How did you know that you weren’t really there?”

“The train stopped,” Bucky remembers. He digs his fingers into the couch cushions in an attempt to calm his body. “I felt it—the chair never did that. And I got out—I don’t really remember—then I was on the street. And I came back home.” _And hid in the bedroom, and kept a wall at my back for the next three days,_ he doesn’t add.

It’s obvious that Sam’s taking notes. Bucky can’t hear his pen, but he can just see it, Sam sitting alone in his office chair and rapidly filling up his notepad. “What’s the diagnosis?” he asks, his voice sour. “Am I FUBAR?”

Sam’s too professional, or maybe too concerned, to laugh, and it wasn’t really funny to begin with. “Can you clarify something for me?” he asks.

“Maybe. I doubt it.” Bucky lifts his hand to make sure he hasn’t ripped a hole in the couch, and sets it back down, relieved. “Most of it’s kind of—hazy.”

“You said you couldn’t tell who you heard,” Sam says. “You said it was you or ‘them.’ Who is ‘them’?”

Bucky’s mouth is suddenly dry. “You know,” he says, and his voice comes out raspy and small. “You read my file.” All at once he’s terrified that maybe Sam didn’t—that he’ll have to explain. “You did read it, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Sam says, “I did.”

He sounds like he’s about to ask another question, so Bucky cuts him off. “Then you already know all of it. I don’t have to—you don’t need to hear me say it. You know who they are.” A flash of red, a horrible scream. He shudders.

On the other end, Sam is speaking softly. “You know I don’t ask these questions for my own benefit,” he says. “We agreed on this at the beginning of—”

“Okay,” Bucky says heavily, “I know.” He swallows. “But I don’t want to talk about that. Today, I mean. Anything but that.”

Sam’s silent for a long time. Bucky knows he’s waiting for him to talk and keeps his mouth shut, fiddling with Natasha’s diagrams on the coffee table, picking at the frayed area on his left cuff. Natasha pokes her head out of her room and withdraws again when she sees he’s still on the phone. “How do you feel about the episode,” Sam asks at last, “now that it—or the most intense part of it—is over?”

“I hate it,” Bucky says at once. “I thought I was past this kind of—you know. The breaking down. It’s been months.” He bites his lip. “I remember how it was then, I mean, I couldn’t even take a shower. Couldn’t shake hands.”

“But you can now.”

“Well—yeah,” Bucky agrees, caught off-guard. “But that’s different. It was so long ago. I don’t want to—it shouldn’t _take_ this long.” The words burst out of him, a little loud. “It’s so fucking frustrating. I feel like I’m never—never going to be able to just function, normally, you know, like a person with a working brain.” He lapses into silence, scowling at his legs stretched out on the couch.

After a moment, Sam asks, “How did you feel when you were first starting this process, back in November? Were you so frustrated then?”

Bucky thinks back, tries to remember. “No,” he says slowly. “I’d just had my insides put through a blender, it was bound to take some t—” He stops. “I see what you’re doing.” Sam says nothing. “It’s not the same,” Bucky tells him. “Yeah, it’s all a process or whatever, but—there should be a learning curve, right? I have to get _better_ eventually.” He’s breathless for a moment, swept up in the wanting of it, the desperation to someday be free of whatever he is now. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I have to.”

Half an hour later, when he hangs up and bangs on Natasha’s door to let her know she can come out again, Bucky answers her questioning look with a shrug and a grimace. He can’t deny that it was a good idea, probably, but he always feels shaky and turned inside-out after therapy sessions, no matter how helpful they are.

—

He goes back to work after two more days, still shuddering a little at the onslaught of sound and peripheral motion, but once he gets to the community center the panic fades away. To his relief, Bruce doesn’t ask any questions, just says he’s glad to see Bucky back again. Then he says they’re mulching today, which almost makes Bucky wish he’d stayed home. He dislikes the wood chips and the tiny slivers he always gets despite his thick gloves, which also never manage to keep the dirt from coating his hands. Natasha grins at him, toothy and knowing, and disappears in the direction of the locker rooms.

But after a few hours in the sun, breathing the sharp-sweet smell of earth and wood, Bucky can’t believe he stayed away so long. The rooftop garden had been an accidental job, just a volunteering stint while he looked for what he described to Natasha as “real work,” but the feeling of dirt beneath his hands and the sight of green things growing was something that he couldn’t leave. None of that had existed in Austria or St. Petersburg or in the dark vaults where he forgot the sunlight—and it felt so good to work, to sweat and stretch and be gentle with his hands under the open sky. Even the city seemed to disappear. Bucky’s glad to find that the last two weeks haven’t changed that.

At the end of the day, after he sticks his head under the faucet in the men’s room and cleans the dirt from his nails, Bucky waits for Natasha at the door. She looks surprised to see him there. “I thought you’d go to see Steve,” she says as they walk outside.

Bucky looks down, guilty. He does go to the art gallery after work a lot, when he’s tired, but in a good way. But now—“I don’t know,” he says. “I kind of—I stood him up. Last time.”

“Because you were traumatized,” Natasha says, blinking at him like he’s an idiot. “You didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, but.” Bucky shakes his head. He can feel himself starting to flush. “I never actually told him that.” It’s the thought that’s dogged him for days now, ever since the horrible, heart-stopping fog began to recede. “I don’t have his number,” he says when Natasha stops walking. “And I didn’t know how to explain, anyways.” She snorts. “Don’t,” he says irritably, “you’ve barely told anyone, either.”

She starts walking again, but rolls her eyes as if to say that she’s never dropped off the map for two weeks. And she drops the subject after that, but the guilt doesn’t vanish. Still—it takes Bucky another half-week to work up the nerve to go back to the gallery. He tries to imagine what Steve will say, the hurt tone of his voice, the expression on his face, and finds that he can’t. He’s seen Steve tired and irritated and bored, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen him angry.

While he walks over, Bucky plans how he’ll explain himself. The words don’t come easily, but he thinks he’ll be able to do it. The problem comes in actually opening his mouth, forcing the truth out. It’s a part of himself that he doesn’t like to look at. He wipes his right palm on his pants, hoping it’s not still dirty from the garden.

It’s an afternoon when Steve usually works. But when Bucky walks into the gallery—breathing in the familiar scent of coffee, paint, and cat—it’s Peggy behind the desk. “Oh,” he says, stopping short. “Hi.”

When she turns to him, she doesn’t look upset, so he thinks Steve must not have told her about the museum. Then her eyes widen. “What is it?” she asks, sounding almost frightened.

Bucky takes a few more steps forward, approaching the desk. “Is Steve here?”

Her face smooths over immediately, but she shakes her head. “No,” she says, and then frowns. “Do you—not know?”

“Not know what?” Bucky asks, his stomach dropping.

“He’s in hospital,” Peggy tells him. “Since two nights ago.” She must see his horror on his face, because she actually stands up, looking like she wants to reach out towards him. “He’s all right,” she rushes, “sorry, I swear he’s not in any danger. It’s just for observation.”

Bucky stares at her, feeling his pulse still speeding along at a breakneck pace behind his ribs. “Observation,” he repeats. Takes a breath. She wouldn’t lie to him about this. But the shock doesn’t let go easily. “For what?”

Peggy opens her mouth but hesitates. “If he hasn’t told you,” she begins, “then I don’t know if I should—”

“Right,” Bucky says quickly, “yeah, sure.” He bites his lip. “Well, can you tell him—” he begins, at the same time as Peggy says, “He should be out by next weekend.”

She smiles when he stops talking. “You can tell him yourself, whatever it is.”

Somehow, that sounds like a horrible idea. “Actually, can you still tell him?” Bucky asks. “I don’t have his number. Can you just—tell him that I can explain? And that I’m sorry?”

She pauses, her brow furrowed, then nods. “Of course.”

“I know it’s weird,” Bucky says. “Thanks.” He stands there for a moment longer, debating whether or not to ask Peggy if Steve really is okay, though he figures she’s got no reason to lie to him, even if Steve has told her about the museum. So he goes out into the overcast afternoon feeling, if possible, worse than before.

It doesn’t help that at his next session with Sam, after the usual “Fine, thanks, how about you?”, Sam flips back through his notebook and frowns at an earlier page for a minute before he looks up. “I’m glad you’re able to make it in today,” he says. “Have you noticed any recurrences since the last time we talked? Any nightmares or bad thoughts, other symptoms, that have been worse than usual?”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” Bucky confesses. “I’m jumpier than normal. And I sleep a lot. But that’s about it.”

Sam nods. His gaze drops back to the page. “I’ve got here some of the triggers we talked about in one of our first meetings,” he says. “I was going to do this soon anyways, but with your flashback I don’t see any point in waiting. So I want to go through these”—he taps the paper—“and see where you stand on them, how comfortable you’re feeling now. Or uncomfortable,” he adds. “There’s no right answer.”

“We’ll just read through the list?” Bucky asks. “Just—one after another?” He can already predict that this will be highly unpleasant.

“We’ll go as slowly as you need to,” Sam says. “We don’t need to get through them all today. We can talk about other stuff after a few if you feel like it.”

Leaning back in his chair, Bucky smiles. “Thank God. So you’re not such a hard-ass after all.”

Sam’s mouth twitches, but he knows by now when Bucky’s deflecting. “You might be surprised,” he says. “This can be a pretty helpful exercise.”

Bucky folds his arms. “If you say so. What’s number one?”

—

“I have a Plan,” Bucky calls out when he gets home, capitalizing the word with his voice, “and you’re not gonna like it.”

“A plan,” Natasha repeats from out of sight. “Can’t wait. What is it?”

“Well, it’s Sam’s plan. Actually it’s the same one as before. He wants us—me—to work on cars again.”

She’s in her room, but the door’s open, and he hears her swear under her breath two seconds before she appears, her face expressionless. “Okay.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, shrugging. “I don’t like it either.” He drops his bag with his sweaty work clothes onto the floor beside the couch. “To be honest, I’d rather do what we did last time.”

“What,” Natasha asks, “not and say we did?”

Bucky nods. “It was a hell of a lot easier.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through the notes he jotted down as soon as he left Sam’s office. “But, uh—all things considered, I think maybe we should give it another shot. Really try, I mean.”

Natasha leans sideways against the door frame. “You mean because of the thing on the subway.” When he nods again, she purses her lips. “Are you sure it’s worth it? You’re gonna be—God, you’re gonna be out of commission again half the time anyways.”

He thinks sometimes that if he didn’t have Natasha here, he’d have given up the ghost long ago, probably in the first days after he came to the city. Maybe earlier, when they were still just emailing. He can look at her and not say anything and she’ll understand, and it’s a fucking nightmare that that’s even possible, but he can’t imagine surviving without it. Not when the alternative is to walk down the street and be rotting away on the inside, a silent horror somehow not big enough to hold everything in. So he hates, now, the twist to Natasha’s mouth. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I know you—I know, I mean, last time it was. Well.”

“It sucked,” Natasha agrees, and goes into the kitchen. Bucky watches her open a cupboard and stare into it for a moment, then close it loudly and turn around to face him, her arms crossed. “Look,” she says, “I’m not gonna fight you on this, not if you’re serious. I’m okay with cars and you’re not—”

“Why would you fight me?” Bucky asks, afraid he knows the answer.

She gestures vaguely, not quite meeting his eyes. “You know. I worry about you.”

God, Bucky thinks—doesn’t everybody? “I’m ready to try again,” he insists. “And anyways, doctor’s orders.” He watches the concern grow in her expression and says, “You don’t have to. It’s not an obligation or anything.”

“I know,” she says.

“I’ll get someone else,” he says, though he doesn’t _have_ anyone else for this. “I can get—Nick, maybe—”

“He doesn’t even live in New York anymore,” Natasha reminds him, even as he remembers that fact himself. She finally looks him in the face. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. I just want you to be careful.”

He doesn’t know what to make of this, of how earnest she’s being. It doesn’t fit outside of whispered midnights, both of the falling apart all over each other. Doesn’t belong to this sunny afternoon. “You’re sure?”

“What, that I want you to take care of yourself?”

He breathes a sigh of relief at the joke. “No, that—that you’ll do it.”

“We’ll just have to break out the popcorn and Pixar movies.” She smiles. “You’re my best friend. If I can help you, I will. You can’t walk everywhere forever.”

It’s only after dinner that night, alone in his room and scrolling through one depressing news site after another, that he realizes Natasha has never called him her friend at all before, let alone her best friend. He’d even begun to doubt whether or not they really were as close as he’d felt, because he can count the number of heart-to-hearts they’ve had on one hand, and they only met a few weeks after he got back, and she’d never said anything, anyways. But with as private a person as she is, he thinks—as they all are, when you get down to it—maybe he should look past the words. He supposes she did talk him down from the subway incident. And he wakes her up when she starts crying out at night. So maybe there’s something there after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	3. Chapter 3

They don’t start with the car right away, for which Bucky is grateful, and he’s sure Natasha is too. He heads back to the art gallery after work the next Tuesday in case she decides to spring it on him. The idea of the art gallery, and of Steve, makes him a little anxious as well, but not as much as the idea of cars. About halfway there he starts to get nervous again, so he ducks into a shop for some quiet. Then, because he feels kind of awkward just lurking there, he buys a bouquet of flowers, because of course it’s a florist. Go figure. At least now he has something to do with his hands.

The little bell rings when he walks in the door, and yes, it’s Steve sitting behind the desk, the whole room glowing in the late afternoon sunlight. He looks up and squints. “Oh,” he says as Bucky approaches, “hey.”

There’s an edge to his voice that can’t be a good sign. Bucky holds the flowers below the level of the desk so that they’re out of sight. “Hey,” he replies, trying not to stare but also unable to help from searching for signs that Steve is not completely healthy, possibly in danger of dying, no matter what Peggy told him. There’s nothing, though, maybe just a little paleness, although Steve is already so fair-skinned and -haired that it’s hard to tell. Then he realizes that he is, in fact, staring, and that Steve is apparently unamused. “Um, so,” he says, and clears his throat. “Did Peggy—did she pass on the message?”

“That very cryptic message,” Steve says, “about some kind of explanation? Yeah, she did.” He props his chin on his knuckles and watches Bucky, waiting.

And damn if he doesn’t deserve this. He thought a few times of what he might say, mumbled out a couple inarticulate attempts to himself as he gardened, but now his memory fails him. “I wanted to go,” he says, “to the museum, I mean. I was on my way.” Steve blinks, impassive. “But there was construction, and I—don’t like the subway.”

“Can you take taxis?” Steve asks in an even tone.

“No,” Bucky admits, “not really. I prefer to walk.”

“Everywhere?”

“Everywhere.” Bucky sighs. “I kind of, um, spent the next week mostly catatonic.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve bursts out, his eyes wide. “What the hell happened?”

Bucky shrugs. “You know. Mental breakdown.” He can hardly believe the words are leaving his mouth, but at least Steve isn’t giving him that cool, distanced look anymore. His face feels very warm. “And I would’ve said something sooner but by the time I was, well, fit to go out in public, Peggy said you were—” He stops short, suddenly doubly embarrassed. “You weren’t here,” he tries again.

Steve stares at him for a second longer, then buries his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ,” he says again, sounding very muffled, “fuck.” He lifts his head. “I’m—jeez, I’m sorry I was all—you know.” He waves his hand. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Bucky rushes, “look, I would’ve been angry too.”

“I wasn’t angry,” Steve sniffs, then rolls his eyes. “Okay, yeah, I was, but—” He stops and wipes his eyes; Christ, Bucky thinks, bewildered, is he crying—? Steve clears his throat and sniffs again, this time like he’s trying to smell something. “Wait,” he says, and leans forward to look over the desk. “What kind of flowers are those?” he asks, his eyes still watering.

“Um,” Bucky says, “I don’t know, I bought ‘em on a whim.” He looks at the bouquet. “Daisies, I think,” he says, “oh, and sunflowers.” It’s nice, he thinks, springy—or it would be nice, if Steve weren’t now pulling out a tissue and blowing his nose. “Are you allergic?” he guesses. When Steve nods, Bucky goes and puts the flowers outside, laying them in the sun next to someone’s bike. _Way to go, Barnes._ “I’m really sorry,” he says, coming back in. “I didn’t know—”

“I know,” Steve says, and though he sounds suddenly like he has a cold, he’s smiling, like he knows how much they’re both repeating themselves. Suddenly—ironically, Bucky thinks—the air between them is clearer.

“Can we start again?” Bucky asks, just as Steve sneezes. “What kind of allergic reaction is this?” he can’t help asking, grinning in spite of himself. “It seems like kind of a lot for just flowers. And pretty fast-acting.”

Steve shrugs. His face is red, but it looks like that’s not a reaction: he’s just blushing. “I’m just glad I live in the city,” he says. “Imagine if I were out somewhere with nature. I’d have died by my fifth birthday.” He gives a mock shudder.

Bucky snorts, and then wonders if maybe he shouldn’t laugh at that. “Okay, though,” he says, deciding just to move on, “really, can we start over? Because I am sorry about missing the museum. I didn’t want to stand you up.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Steve tells him. “Sure, I was pissed, but everyone’s allowed a mental breakdown, right? And it wasn’t a date or anything, anyway. Although,” he adds, his eyes crinkling, “you did just bring me flowers.”

Once again, something swoops through Bucky’s stomach, even as he has to bite down on an embarrassed groan. “You were in the hospital,” he says, maybe overdoing the indignant tone a bit. “I have good manners.” Not to mention the fact that allergens don’t make for a great romantic gesture. And then he imagines, just for a split second, _actually_ bringing Steve flowers. Ones that don’t nearly kill him, and not as a sorry-I-abandoned-you present. Shit. He hopes Steve can’t read minds.

“We can go some other time,” Steve says, and it takes Bucky a moment to realize that he’s talking about the museum. “That is, if you still want to.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says immediately, “yeah, of course I do.”

Steve smiles, and Bucky’s heart pounds. _It’s not a date,_ he reminds himself. “Can I have your number?” Steve asks.

Wait, what? “My number?” Bucky repeats. He must have misheard. Either that, or—

“So we can let each other know if plans change,” Steve explains. “And nothing this awkward will ever happen again.”

Oh. “Right.” Bucky hands over his phone so Steve can enter his number, feeling sure that where he’s concerned, awkwardness is guaranteed. He confirms this by immediately blurting out, “So, uh, what were you in the hospital for?” Steve glances up at him. “You don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to,” he says quickly.

Steve chuckles. “Is this what we do?” he asks. “I fuck up by getting too personal, and you return the favor?” He hands Bucky back his phone and says, over his apology, “It’s fine, it’s fine, God. I was in the hospital for my heart failure.”

The phone slips through Bucky’s fingers. “Your what?”

“It’s routine,” Steve says. “Is your phone okay?”

Bucky picks it up; it’s fine. “Your _what?”_ he demands. _“Heart failure?”_

“Congestive,” Steve explains. “Congestive heart failure. CHF. It’s a condition.” He blinks at Bucky. “Peggy said she told you it was just for observation,” he says.

“She did.” Bucky can tell that Steve’s getting either embarrassed or defensive, and he feels bad for reacting like this. But he wishes he could have had some warning. “So you’re—you’re okay,” he says, just to be sure.

Steve nods. “Peachy.” He reaches out and taps Bucky’s phone. “You should text me so I have your number, too.”

It’s kind of tricky since Bucky still has his left hand hidden in his pocket, but he manages to text one-handed with his right and avoids dropping the phone again. _It’s me._ “So when do you want to go to the museum?” he asks as Steve’s phone vibrates with the message.

“When works for you?” Steve counters.

Bucky goes to actual scheduled events so rarely, and has so few standing obligations, that this question is laughable. He’d rather take another ride on the subway, though, than admit to Steve how boring his life is. “This weekend?” he asks, and immediately wonders if that’s too soon. If he seems like a loser. God, he probably does. “Or next weekend,” he suggests.

“This weekend’s fine,” Steve says brightly. “Saturday at two, like last time?”

“Sure.” Bucky vows to check the route the night before to avoid any nasty surprises. And to just text Steve, for Christ’s sake. He represses the urge to say _it’s a date._

But he kind of feels like it is, anyways, and tells Natasha so. She laughs at him. And then she tells him that she can clear Friday afternoon with Bruce so that they can get started on Sam’s horrible, awful task. Bucky agrees, thinking that at least the Met will be a nice reward after possibly almost dying.

Only on Friday morning does he stop to wonder whose car they’ll be using, since neither of them drives in the city. His jaw drops when he walks around the back of the record shop, into the empty lot where Natasha told him to meet her, and sees her leaning against the hood of a beat-up blue station wagon, talking to none other than Clint.

He’d been halfway to taking his hand out of his pocket, and shoves it back in as he approaches. “You guys know each other?” he asks.

Clint looks around. “Wow,” he says, “hey!”

“Do _you_ guys know each other?” Natasha echoes, staring between them.

“Clint works at Steve’s gallery,” Bucky tells her.

“No shit,” she says, and looks at Clint. “You work at _that_ gallery?”

He nods. “And this dude comes in practically every day,” he says, “or he did, anyway, and seduces my boss.”

Bucky can feel himself blushing so strongly that he’s surprised his head doesn’t catch on fire. “How do you two know each other, then?” he challenges.

And it looks like he guessed right, because Natasha glances at Clint and smiles in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her do before. “I almost killed him,” she says. “And then he almost killed me.”

“Story for another time, though,” Clint says, grinning back at her. “You guys have stuff to do, right?” And he wiggles his fingers in a wave, turns on his heel, and walks away around the corner of the record shop.

“You like him,” Bucky can’t resist saying, as if he’s twelve years old.

She flips him the bird but says nothing, just smiles with teeth. “You’re late.”

Bucky shrugs. “I stopped at a craft store on the way here.”

“What for?”

“Story for another time.”

“Fuck you,” she says. “Wanna get started?”

Bucky falls back to earth with a sudden jolt. “Not really.” But he walks up to the car. “What are we doing first?”

Natasha taps the side mirror with her fingernails. “You’re the one with the plan. What do you think we should do first?”

“I mean—” Bucky reaches out and puts his hand on the car. The late spring sunlight has warmed it so it’s almost too hot beneath his palm. He feels fine now, to be honest, except for the dread of what he knows is coming. He puts his other hand on it, stalling for time even though he can’t feel anything with that one and he knows Natasha won’t rush him anyway. He glances at her and sees that her mouth is pressed into a thin line. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says shortly, “I’m fine. You?”

“So far, so good.” He knows she’s lying, but doesn’t press it. She agreed to do this—and they can always stop if it gets to be too much. He takes a deep breath and steps back, opens the passenger-seat door. He doesn’t want to be in the back, where there’s even less space. He looks into the car, looks at the seat. He imagines getting in. His throat starts to constrict.

“Maybe just put your foot in,” Natasha suggests.

“I got it,” Bucky snaps at her, then bites down on his lip. “Sorry.” He tries it—just rests his foot on the edge of the interior, where the door would usually close. It’s not so bad. He doesn’t feel like he’s in the car—doesn’t feel the cramped closeness of it. He folds his arms on top of the car again and rests his chin on his hands, like he’s waiting or maybe just relaxing, like he knows he used to do a million years ago. The sun glares off the roof of the car and hurts his eyes, so he closes them.

It’s quiet in this back lot, so quiet he can almost imagine he’s somewhere and sometime else—maybe in Connecticut on one of the trips his family used to take each summer. Away from the city, peaceful in a way he hasn’t felt since before he enlisted. But there's still that nagging sense of purpose at the back of his mind, because of course they’re not anywhere else, and they’re not here to take a day off. He opens his eyes. A glance to his right shows Natasha watching him intently, her whole body coiled and tight, though to anyone else she’s just lounging against the side of the hood. Her mouth is pressed into a line, even though nothing’s happened, even though he’s _fine_ —but he knows what she’s waiting for, and he doesn’t blame her.

He sighs, forcing the breath out. “Guess we should get this show on the road, right?” He half wants to just sit in the damn car and close the door—it would be so easy, he’s almost got one foot in anyways. But that’s basically what he tried to do on the subway—just get it over with—and look how well that turned out. He bends to sit on the edge of the seat, but it makes his heart pound a little just trying to do it, so he turns around and sits facing out of the car, just barely perching on the seat. “I honestly think it’s all right,” he tells Natasha, who’s still got her jaw clenched.

“Good,” she says, “that’s great.” She smiles and it looks real, if strained. “Don’t take it too fast, though.”

Bucky snorts. “We’ve already been here for, like, twenty minutes.”

She pushes off of the car and comes forward to stand in front of him. “It’s fine, there’s no rush. And we can always come back another day.” She glances away. “Clint won’t mind.”

“Nice of him,” Bucky says, teasing. She rolls her eyes, and he wants to keep stalling again, but he knows it’ll just drag things out. It’s okay when he can’t see the little box of the car, when it’s just the mirror and the open door. Most of him is in the open air. “Okay,” he says aloud. He’s not sure if it’s for himself or Natasha. “Okay.” He starts to ease himself backwards, into the car.

As soon as his shoulders pass through the door, he feels the compression—not just from the tight space, but from inside himself, his lungs squeezing, emptying of air. He ignores it, only to freeze up completely when his head’s inside, too. The passenger seat is roomy, bigger than the car he used to own, but the cream-colored upholstery presses in at the corners of his vision and the air is suddenly stale. “Romanoff,” he says, and it comes out gasping. He clings to the edges of the door like he’s trying to keep himself from being sucked inside— _stupid,_ he thinks, very clearly against the growing static background of his panic—

She’s saying something, and her voice shakes, or is that his own jumping pulse? No, it’s her—“Barnes, hey, look at me—Barnes—”

He has to get out of the car. He can’t move. He clutches the frame with his right hand, the bottom of the window with his left, and then Natasha is right in front of him, practically on his lap. Her face is all he can see.

“Bucky,” she says, “let go, okay? Let go and you’ll be able to stand up.”

Bad idea, he thinks, horrible. Letting go is surrendering control, letting them take him. But Natasha won’t leave him alone. She pries at the fingers of his right hand, gentle but firm, and he has to release the door. She takes his hand, still saying words that he doesn’t comprehend, and then the metal hand opens and his feet are on the ground and he’s leaning forward, straightening, taking a breath so big he thinks his lungs will burst. He wants to take the whole city into his lungs. _Brooklyn,_ he thinks, the word like a prayer. This is what Sam has told him, eerily similar to his sniper training: locate, inhale, home in, exhale. The back lot. This fucking car. He repeats it in his head and anchors himself to what he knows.

And now it’s her hand that he can’t let go of, but she doesn’t seem to care about that. “I told you to take it slow,” she tells him, then shakes her head, tucking her hair behind her ear with her free hand. “Sorry. You don’t—are you—?”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, “I’m fine. Thanks.” He steadies himself against her grip and breathes out, long and slow. “I think,” he says, and swallows, “I think I’m done for today.”

She squeezes his hand. “I’ll go get Clint.”

“Wait.” She’s already dropped his hand; Bucky reaches out and closes the door, then leans against it. “Just wait a second. I—I need a minute.”

“Sure.” She offers up an encouraging smile.

Bucky returns it as well as he can. His whole body’s still humming with anxiety, even though his heart is slowing down, and when he stretches his arm out in front of his body to get rid of some of the nervous energy, he realizes his right hand is shaking. His neck and back feel so tense that he knows it must show, knows he’s going to be sore tomorrow because of it. He scrubs a hand over his face, sucks in another huge breath. He still feels jittery. “Okay,” he says, “I’m ready.” While Natasha walks off around the corner, Bucky puts his hand back in his pocket, tugs his jacket back into alignment, and tries not to look like he’s falling apart.

He must do at least a passable job, because when Clint comes back he says nothing—doesn’t even look curious, although that might be because he’s too busy watching Natasha. It gives Bucky a few more seconds to remember that his face is still beaded with sweat and wipe it away. Clint leaves pretty quickly after that, saying bye and giving Bucky a fist-bump in one fluid motion before driving off.

In the suddenly empty lot, Natasha turns to Bucky. “You wanna get ice cream?”

Bucky considers this for half a second. “Hell yes.”

They’re standing in line for the ice cream before he thinks to ask— “So how _did_ you meet Clint?”

She rolls her eyes. “I already said—”

“You said you almost killed each other, you can’t leave me hanging like—”

“I should really let him tell it.” Natasha snorts at his expression. “Honestly, it’s not as cool as you’re imagining it. Kind of embarrassing, actually.”

“Hey, speaking of embarrassing.” They shuffle a few feet up in the line. “What did you tell Clint about today?” She frowns. “He let us borrow his car. What reason did you give him?”

“I just asked him if we could use his car for something, and he made me promise that we wouldn’t hurt it, and then he said he’d wanted to check out that record shop anyways.” She shrugs. “He didn’t really seem too concerned about what we needed it for.”

“Oh.” Bucky remembers his metal hand gripping the car and thanks any god that’s listening that they _didn’t_ hurt the car. “So—so you didn’t tell him about,” Bucky gestures vaguely at himself, “about all my freaky problems?”

Natasha turns to look at him. “What? No, of course not.” She steps up to the little window. “I wouldn’t out you like that.”

While she orders, Bucky sorts through that in his mind, goes and gets them a table in the shade of the little tiny awning. It’s not as if he expected her to have told Clint everything, or really anything at all, but the confirmation is nice. Strike that: it’s amazing. He wonders if these kinds of things will ever feel less than miraculous.

“You look all worried again,” Natasha says when she finds him. She hands him his little cup of ice cream and sits down across the table. “Is it the car still?”

He shakes his head. “I was actually thinking about what happened last month, with the subway.” She glances at him, surprised. “I know it must have been hard for you. Me being like that. I was—I wasn’t there, it was anyone’s guess what I might’ve done.”

“But you didn’t do anything—”

“No, I know, that’s not—I just mean, I didn’t even think about you. What you did, helping me, snapping me out of it. Making sure I didn’t completely lose it after that. I know you hate doing that stuff.”

She doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t say anything at all.

Bucky looks down at his ice cream, the pecans sinking a little as the vanilla-bourbon ice cream begins to melt. “So, uh. Thank you. For helping me with that. And—yeah, today too.” She’s still silent, and he knows she’s looking at him, so Bucky shoves a spoonful of the ice cream into his mouth.

After a long, long silence, she says, “I know I don’t have to do this. I didn’t mean it when I said you didn’t have anyone else to help—I know you can deal. It’s not some obligation thing.” She actually sounds a little upset about it, staring down into her ice cream and gripping the plastic spoon tight in one hand. “I wouldn’t fucking be here if it was like that.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, surprised. “Sorry.” He can’t help feeling a little stung, though he doesn’t know quite why, and she hasn’t explained why she _is_ here, but he knows it’s better if he just lets it go.

They both eat some ice cream in silence. Then she says, in a cheery tone that must be at least partially false, “So, are you ready for your date tomorrow?”

“It’s not a date,” Bucky says automatically.

Predictably, she grins. “You brought him flowers last time.”

“He was in the hospital!”

“You tried to take the subway for this guy.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but it’s a simple fact, not something he can argue against.

Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Is it so bad to admit that you like him?”

“Well, yeah, kind of,” he sighs, “if nothing can ever happen.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s the truth.” Bucky swirls his spoon around in the remainder of his ice cream, which is now mostly a puddle. “I don’t know how to be the kind of person who—who does that,” he says.

She sighs, too. “I know we’ve talked about this before. And I still think you don’t have to, I don’t know, take long romantic walks on the beach—”

“It’s not the beach,” Bucky bursts out, “that’s not the problem, it’s—it’s—the romantic part. You know,” he gestures, “telling someone everything. I can’t even tell _you_ everything.” He wonders if that’s maybe a horrible thing to say. “I just mean it—” He bites off his next words. _It scares me._ He’d never quite realized the truth of it before, the fear that threatens to engulf him. How—how would he even begin—? But Natasha is still looking at him, inscrutable, and he shrugs. “It’s weird.”

“I know,” she says, and looks like she might want to reach for his hand again, but tucks her hair behind one ear instead. For once, he doesn’t think he would have minded the touch. “You should talk to Sam about that,” she tells him.

“You should talk to—who do you even talk to?” For the first time, Bucky realizes that he doesn’t actually know.

“Her name’s Maria.” Natasha looks awkward as she says it, watching intently as she lets the last spoonful of her melted ice cream dribble off the end of her spoon, back into the bowl. “She’s all right. And I’m guessing I don’t want to talk to her about it for the same reason you don’t want to talk to Sam.”

“Huh.” Bucky takes her bowl and nests it inside his own, and launches the spoons like javelins into the trash can. “Guess you’ve got a point there.”

—

The next morning, Bucky checks his route, leaves earlier, and consequently arrives at the Met fifteen minutes before he needs to meet Steve. He doesn’t feel as out-of-place as he expected, but he loiters nonetheless, checking out the gift shop, avoiding the gaze of anyone who walks past him. Then, scanning the room aimlessly, the statues, the fountains, he sees the metal detector. He doesn’t know how he missed it before—one guard watching the screen while the other beckons people through. It makes sense to have extra security around so much valuable art, especially given how fearful the world seems to have become these days—but, Bucky thinks with a sense of impending doom, it’s a little different when you have a metal arm.

“Hey,” Steve says, and of course he’s right behind Bucky, a little disheveled by the windy day but otherwise looking great—and even the windswept hair is kind of attractive.

Then Bucky realizes what he’s thinking and brings his thoughts in line with a massive effort, apprehension about the metal detector still blaring in his mind. “You made it,” he says, like an idiot.

Steve blinks. At the second glance, maybe he looks a little less than great; he keeps shifting his weight around. “Yeah, it’s two.” Then he frowns. “Are you okay? You look kinda freaked out.”

“Fine,” Bucky says quickly, “I’m fine.” But he can’t help glancing at the metal detector, and when he looks back, he knows that Steve saw. “I just don’t like the security,” he explains, except what the hell kind of explanation is that?

To his credit, Steve doesn’t laugh or make a joke. “Why not?” he asks seriously.

And now Bucky starts to get that horrible feeling of rising panic again, despite the fact that it’s entirely unwarranted, despite the fact that this entire event is very much overdue. It’s ridiculous. He always knew he would have to tell someone eventually—but somehow he’s managed to ignore that for long enough, push it far enough into the future, that it kind of seemed like he could avoid this forever. “I always set off the alarms,” he says, “and I—I don’t really—I have a prosthetic arm,” he finishes, blurting it out in one quick breath. He breaks eye contact, but looks back almost immediately, his stomach churning.

“Oh,” Steve says, “that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” Steve says, and he makes a face somewhere between a grimace and a smile, like he’s embarrassed, “I mean, you haven’t taken your hand out of your pocket in all the time I’ve known you. You start to notice it after a while. I just kind of figured—it made sense.”

Bucky feels his face grow hot. “That—yeah,” he stammers, “I guess it was kind of obvious.” Suddenly he wants to hide, wishes he’d worn an enormous sweatshirt, the kind he could vanish inside. He wonders if everyone walking by can see it too—if he’s just been drawing attention to it the whole time.

Steve shrugs. “Maybe just to me,” he says, and then he blushes, too. “I’ve got some experience trying to hide shit.”

For a moment, Bucky opens his mouth, curious, but decides for once not to pry. “Anyways,” he says, “it’s not that I can’t go through or whatever, it’s just, it’s a little weird.” He wonders if Steve can tell how much of an understatement this is, maybe even an outright lie.

If he does know, he doesn’t show it. He shrugs and shifts his weight to the other foot again. “Sure—but if you want, we can go somewhere else. It’s not a problem.”

“Well, we—we’re here to look at art, right?” Bucky sees a quick change flicker over Steve’s face and realizes he’s not the only one who forgot, momentarily, that this wasn’t actually a date. He has to smile at that, just a little. “I can do it,” he says again. “It’s just a metal detector.” He shrugs.

But then he has to actually do it, force his feet to walk over and talk to the security guard. He’s glad he wore a jacket he can take off, because he doesn’t really like the idea of taking his shirt off during the private screening, doesn’t even know if they would make him do that—he feels naked enough already. But the guard’s hands are impersonal, quick, and he doesn’t seem to look askance at the appearance of the metal arm. Maybe he’s actually unfazed—or, Bucky thinks, maybe he’s just well-trained. He manages to keep calm, even flash a smile at the guard, but there’s a low buzz of anxiety in his mind the whole time.

Steve meets him in the ticket area and thankfully makes no comment. “Where do you want to go first?” he asks.

Surprised at being asked, Bucky says, “Upstairs?”

So they take the elevator upstairs, where they’re surrounded by artwork that Bucky immediately associates with his old high school history textbooks. The sign says EUROPEAN PAINTINGS. Steve looks at Bucky expectantly.

“You said Caravaggio before, right?” Bucky looks around. “Where do we find that guy?”

“Oh,” Steve says, and heads off at once like he’s got the place memorized. They stop in front of a wide painting of three figures, a man pointing at another and a woman watching in between. Bucky’s a little confused, especially since the lighting is so dramatic that it’s hard to see the faces, until he reads the title: _[The Denial of Saint Peter.](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437986)_

Bucky doesn’t know much about the Bible, and he looks sidelong at Steve, wondering if he’ll be expected to have some kind of informed opinion on the subject matter at the very least. Steve glances over, too, and says, just as cryptically as always, “What do you think?”

Now the question just makes Bucky roll his eyes. “What’s the story again—? Jesus was arrested, and then Peter, what, said that he didn’t know him? Three times, right?”

“Before the rooster crows,” Steve adds, nodding. “Just like Christ said he would.” Then he gives a half-shrug. “You take an art history course, you learn a lot about religion.”

“Who’s she?” Bucky asks, pointing at the woman.

“She’s the first one who asked Peter if he knew Christ,” Steve says. “He told her no—sometimes once, sometimes twice, depending on which gospel you’re reading. And that guy, the soldier, asked him, too.”

Bucky looks closer. The soldier is almost entirely in shadow; his face is so murky that he almost blends into the background. His finger is raised in accusation, pointing at Peter, his gaze intent. Peter, on the other side, stands with his hands curled on his chest and his face contorted into an open-mouthed frown. He’s entirely bathed in light.

“It’s terrifying,” Bucky says without meaning to—without knowing exactly why. He sees Steve looking at him questioningly. “Something about the colors,” he tries to explain, “or maybe—” His gaze keeps catching on the faces. The woman looks confused, almost, and a little alarmed, and he notices with a jolt that she, too, is pointing at Peter, but with both hands. “I kind of wonder why he did it.”

Steve frowns. “What?”

“Why Peter denied knowing Jesus,” Bucky says. “I don’t know, I mean, it’s not really the point, but he’s—he’s so adamant, I mean, look at him!” Bucky mirrors Peter’s pose one-handed. “And everyone else…” He trails off and drops his arm. “I don’t think I’m making any sense.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Steve suggests. “Sometimes the things we’re really passionate about are hard to explain.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Bucky says. He’s still fixating on Peter’s face, the open mouth, the furrowed brow. The sense of fear. The moment that thought surfaces, Bucky turns away from the painting, because it’s stupid and somehow embarrassing—he’s not Peter, he hasn’t betrayed anyone, and who the hell finds their inner selves in the art museum, anyways? “Do you have any other recommendations?” he asks.

Steve looks surprised, but after a moment’s thought starts walking through the gallery. Bucky follows, and sees more than he expected—several crucifixions, [a scene around a table](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437871) painted in soft, floaty colors, and [a lute player](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/439933) who sits mostly in shadow, the lines of his face and body stark against the dark background. Finally, Steve shows him [a portrait of an old woman](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/441024)—just her head, eyes downcast, bathed from above in an indistinct golden light.

“This is my favorite,” Steve says, sitting down on one of the benches in the middle of the room. His eyes move slowly over the canvas, taking in every detail. “Or one of them, I guess, if we’re just talking about Renaissance art.”

There’s a new expression on Steve’s face, rapt, alight. It makes Bucky want to understand, for more than the art’s sake. “Why?” he asks.

Leaning back on the heels of his hands, Steve continues to gaze at the painting and shrugs. “She looks tired to me. But she didn’t do anything, she just—got old. Look at her.” Bucky does, and tries to see what Steve means. “Some people think this was Borgianni’s mother, but no one knows for sure. Some peasant woman. And you can look at her and see that even four hundred years ago, people were thinking about age, and getting tired, and wondering where they were going to be in the end.”

Steve’s voice has grown quiet, and Bucky turns around, concerned. “You okay?” he asks, and after a second’s hesitation he sits down on the bench beside him.

The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks. “Just tired. You know.”

“Oh.” Bucky shifts on the bench, not sure how to respond. “What... uh, is this your favorite stuff? Oil paintings?”

“Nah,” Steve says, “I like abstract. And sculptures. Abstract sculptures.”

“And where are those?”

“Well—” Steve shrugs, looking away. There are three other people in the long room, all apparently absorbed in their own thoughts. “I’m not—I don’t think I can stay much longer today,” he says. “I’m really sorry.” He glances back at Bucky and away again. His shoulders are hunched and he’s biting down on his bottom lip, and he sighs. “I wish I could stay longer.”

Bucky checks his watch and realizes they’ve already been here for almost an hour and a half. It only makes him more confused as to why Steve is so upset about having to leave—it’s not as if he stood someone up and didn’t apologize for two weeks, like a certain person Bucky could mention. “All right,” he says, “don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe we can do abstract stuff some other day,” Steve suggests.

“Sure.”

Looking slightly less troubled, Steve gets to his feet. “I’ll text you,” he says, “we’ll set something up.”

“Okay,” Bucky says quickly, still a little taken aback at the quick change in plans and irritatingly, irrationally disappointed that they won’t even walk out together. He stands up, too. “Uh, before you go, I actually have something for you—” And suddenly all of his doubts come rushing back, and he’s very certain that this was a horrible idea. Definitely the wrong thing to do. But it’s too late, because Steve is looking at him expectantly now, even if his expression is somewhat apprehensive, too.

“Okay,” Bucky says again. “Well—this is kind of weird, but I brought you flowers after you were in the hospital before, right, and—I mean, you were allergic. And I felt kind of bad about that.” Steve opens his mouth and Bucky speaks over his protestations. “I made you—I don’t know. Here.” He pulls his right hand out of his pocket and offers Steve the bouquet, now slightly crumpled.

Steve takes the flowers hesitantly and fingers the pipe cleaner stems. After a moment he smiles, and seeing that makes Bucky realize that it’s the first real one he’s seen today. On top of another prick of concern, he feels a bone-deep warmth to know that he can bring that to Steve’s face—and the warmth only grows as Steve jokingly sniffs at the tissue paper blossoms. “Very nice,” he says a little dryly.

“I just felt bad.” Bucky scratches his nose, pretty sure he’s gone completely red. He wants to say _they’re not those kind of flowers_ but thinks that might just draw attention to all the ways in which they are. What an awful idea, all of this. “You can put them in your gallery,” he says in attempt to save himself. “Or something.”

At that, Steve really grins. “Maybe I will,” he says. “Thanks. I really do like them.”

“You’re welcome.” Bucky can feel himself smiling widely in return. “I’m glad.”

A moment passes between them in which Steve looks down at the flowers and his smile softens, and Bucky’s heart pounds almost painfully in his chest. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what, doesn’t know how.

“Actually, though,” Steve says, “I do have to go.” He still looks regretful, but he doesn’t sound as torn up about it as before.

“Sounds good.” Steve’s already turned around and started walking away when Bucky springs into motion, hurrying up to walk beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve grin again, smaller, as if he’s trying to hide it but can’t quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The works of art mentioned above are linked, but they are, in order:  
> “The Denial of Saint Peter” by Caravaggio (1610)  
> “The Supper at Emmaus” by Velázquez (1622-23)  
> “Lute Player” by Valentin (c. 1625-26)  
> “Head of an Old Woman” by Orazio Borgianni (after 1610)
> 
> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	4. Part Two: Summer

“Any evening plans?” Bruce asks, shaking bits of dirt off of his gloves.

Bucky shrugs, peeling his own gloves off with his back turned, then slipping his left hand into his pocket. He’s been self-conscious about it ever since Steve said it was noticeable, but he still can’t stop. “Natasha says she wants to see that movie about the cowboy, that might end up being tonight. You?” He turns around.

Bruce shakes his head and takes Bucky’s gloves to lay both pairs over the side of the big industrial sink. “My plans involve some quality relaxation. I’m talking bubble bath.”

Bucky snorts. “Is this job that stressful?”

“Tell me you’re not sore after working all day in this heat.” Bruce waves a hand as if to indicate the weather, although they’re standing in a dim custodial closet at the moment. “If I have a free night, I take advantage of it. You should, too.”

“Well, that’s what the movie’s for.” But when Bucky gets back to the apartment, there’s a note from Natasha laying on the counter. _Clint bought a fucking motorcycle. I’ll be back late, sorry. See you—N._

Reading the words, Bucky feels strangely bereft, and for a moment it’s as if the glaring evening sun has dimmed. It takes him a few more seconds to realize that it’s disappointment, but he’s not sure what the exact reason is: that Natasha’s not here, or that she has a date and he doesn’t? Regardless, he tells himself, it’s stupid. She deserves it. He’s only got himself to blame for being alone, anyways. But really—a motorcycle? He should be glad for her. And he is. Still, he fiddles aimlessly with the pile of junk mail for a minute, trying to work himself up to actually believing he’s not also a little jealous.

It’s the sunset that drives him to action: it becomes too dark in the apartment to see properly, so he turns on the light, and that’s when he notices the second paper with an arrow pointing to the fridge. He opens it and sees two boxes of takeout from his favorite Romanian restaurant. “Fuck yes,” he breathes, and takes one out. His mood turns on a dime.

Halfway through the smoked sausages, he decides to take a page out of Bruce’s book, though he’s pretty sure they don’t actually have any bubble bath. So when he’s done eating, Bucky turns up the music and heads into the bathroom, turns on the tap. He considers swiping one of Natasha’s bath bombs but thinks that might look too much like petty revenge.

While the tub fills, he takes off his clothes, avoiding looking in the mirror as much as he can: he’s never liked the scars that rope around his shoulder, practically twining up his neck. Thankfully his collar covers the worst of it. He catches a glimpse in the mirror anyways and shudders. Then he’s focusing on averting his eyes, so he slips as he steps into the tub and nearly cracks his head on the wall. In the end, he winds up with water in his mouth, a bounding pulse, and a jaw so tightly clenched he’s surprised he hasn’t bitten off his tongue.

The water is hot, and that feels good. But try as he might he can’t relax again—the tension refuses to leave his body. He doesn’t really hear the music, either, and his thoughts spring from one thing to another. He can’t even keep his eyes shut for more than a few moments without growing anxious.

Grumbling to himself, he gets out of the tub and drains the water, which has somehow cooled off entirely. It must have been longer than he thought. Feeling inexplicably uneasy, he towels off and puts his clothes back on. There’s a tinge to everything running through his mind that gives him some sort of bitter aftertaste, something that makes him want to gag, and as he wanders from room to room, restless, he starts to recognize the shape of it.

It’s now so dark, though the blinds aren’t drawn, that Bucky begins to bump into furniture. It doesn’t help—each unfamiliar form resembles something much less innocuous than a chair or coffee table. He sits down on the couch and clenches his shaking hands. The unsteady, wild panic scratches the back of his throat.

With fumbling fingers, he pulls out his phone to scroll through his contacts. Sam, he thinks, will know what to do. But he overshoots and winds up staring at Steve’s number. Before he can stop to consider, he dials.

Steve picks up on the third ring. “Bucky?”

“Hey,” Bucky says, “Steve—” and then he can’t bring himself to say more.

After a few moments, Steve asks, “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

Though he knows Steve can’t see him, Bucky spreads one hand in a hopeless kind of gesture. “I’m okay, I just wanted to talk. Do you—do you have time?” He’s aware, belatedly, that it’s past midnight—much later than he thought.

But Steve sounds truthful when he says, “Sure. I was awake already anyways.”

And then of course there’s a silence, and Bucky’s brain fills it with a number of awful things. “How did you start your gallery?” he asks, trying not to gasp the question like the drowning man he is.

“Well, after I dropped out of art school,” Steve says slowly, “I bummed around for a bit, bagged groceries, you know. Eventually I met Peggy and together we had enough to get a little apartment—and she, I don’t know.” Steve laughs a little awkwardly. “She had her own work, but she gets art, too. The gallery was about to close anyways. We got it for free, actually—I mean, it was really going down. It’s doing better now.”

It takes a second of quiet for Bucky to realize that Steve’s done. “You just did it? You got started, just like that?”

“I guess.” Bucky can hear that Steve’s smiling. “We painted it all over again, talked to local artists. It is kind of funny now that you mention it, since neither of us really have any training or much in the way of experience—but how’d you get into your garden job? Didn’t you just _get started_ at some point?”

Someone’s car alarm goes off in the street, making Bucky jump. “That was after I got back,” he says distractedly. “I didn’t—I like it, but I didn’t exactly choose it.”

“Oh,” Steve says, “sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Bucky breathes out, trying to think of anything else, anything else—“Why’d you drop out of art school?”

There’s a definite note of surprise in Steve’s voice when he answers. “A few reasons—my mom got sick, my own health kind of plummeted, and it just didn’t really suit me in general. The institution, you know.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, though he’s not sure if he really does.

“What about you,” Steve says, “did you go to school?”

“Vocational. I was a mechanic—before.” Bucky wonders if Steve knows how desperately he needs a distraction, how grateful he is for the question. “Do you…?” He doesn’t know what to say, but he thinks he has to say something. “What did you do today?”

Steve lets out a long sigh. “Not much. I didn’t go into the gallery. Got some paperwork done, took a nap. Did some cat-sitting for Tony. Did you know that Jarvis has a thing for my headboard?”

“Huh.” Slowly, still shaky, Bucky stretches out on the couch and stares up at the darkened ceiling. His heartbeat thrums in his bones. “What does he do?”

“Just smushes himself up against it and lays there, mostly.” Steve snorts, a burst of static. “He’s there right now. Purring. He’s a very polite cat.”

“That sounds…” Bucky takes a deep breath. “Sounds nice.” He tries to say something else, but the words don’t come. His throat feels tight, the darkness threatening, and in his mind everything is wintry. He knows Steve must be waiting for him to speak—he wants to talk—he runs his hand over his face to make sure that there’s nothing there, shakes his head to be absolutely certain that he can. It doesn’t stop the rising tension in his chest. It’s not working. It’s not—

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/143551898@N08/44713111455/in/dateposted-public/)

The silence goes on and on, Bucky can’t say how long it lasts. He wonders if Steve is still there or if he hung up—nothing quite makes sense, so it seems possible that Bucky might not notice if he had. Thoughts come too fast. Noises are too harsh. And he thinks he hears it again, that howling wind, coming from everywhere at once. “It’s the train,” he croaks, not sure if Steve can hear and half-hoping that he can, just so that someone will know. “It’s always the train. Sometimes—the chair, or—the other things—but it all comes back to the train.”

He’s lying curled up on the couch with the phone pressed between his cheek and the cushion, the words jerking out of him like his own innards, a physical pain. But he can’t stop talking, and there’s silence on the other end, and he doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or not. “I always remember the wind, and nothing underneath me. I don’t even know what I was there for anymore—what I was trying to do.” His voice has sunk to the softest of whispers. “I don’t remember why. Maybe I was always going to—” He stops, wracked by a shudder, curling up into an even tighter ball, heaving with something that comes from behind his breastbone and hurts, deep and searing. It passes then and leaves him feeling emptied. A husk, a shell. Nothing of value left inside.

He breathes, that’s all, so long that it becomes easier to see things, to unclench from his rigid little ball. He sighs. And in the static feedback in his ear, he thinks he hears another breath, one that’s not his own. “Steve,” he says, “you still there?” He can’t tell if he’s hoping for an answer or silence.

No response. And then— “Yeah,” Steve says, “I’m with you.”

And then Bucky’s doubts are gone, somehow, and he knows he’ll have to answer for the things he’s said tonight but his eyelids are heavy and his bones drag him down and somewhere within all those lights outside, Steve is listening. “Good,” Bucky breathes, and then he breathes some more, and eventually his thoughts lose their moorings.

He wakes up to Natasha calling his name, prodding him tentatively in the thigh. The momentary panic this produces really is only momentary, and then he’s able to roll onto his back. His phone falls away from his face and he can feel that it’s left an imprint behind. Looking at it, he sees that the battery’s completely dead. “Morning,” he says to Natasha, who’s still bending over him.

“Morning,” she returns, raising one eyebrow. “Hot phone sex?”

“Um,” Bucky says, “no.” But he ruins the denial by remembering everything he did say and scrubbing his face in his hands, as if he could rub away any traces of it. “No,” he repeats, lifting his head again.

“Sure,” she says, and smiles knowingly.

Bucky’s just glad she’s not asking questions. “What about you,” he challenges, “hot motorcycle sex?”

She pauses in the act of dropping her purse on the table to throw him a dirty look. “That’s disgusting.” He clears his throat and glances meaningfully at the clock, which shows a quarter to seven. She follows his gaze and rolls her eyes. “Not on the motorcycle,” she clarifies, and vanishes into her bedroom.

Chuckling, Bucky brings his phone into his own room and plugs it in. After a minute he can turn it on again, and he sees that the last call totaled just under two hours. He wonders if that was when Steve hung up or when the phone died. Either possibility makes him cringe. The only thing he wants to do is hide in his bed, but a voice in his head that sounds an awful lot like his old CO is telling him to take some responsibility.

So he swallows a few bites of breakfast and once his phone is charged he heads over to the gallery. Clint’s behind the desk and grins awkwardly when Bucky walks in, and after offering a weird little wave, Bucky proceeds past him. He can’t find Steve, but he’s not really looking for him—he half-hopes he won’t even be here, so he’ll never have to explain. Trying to look busy, he slows down, gazes at the artwork. He comes to a stop between two abstract paintings, staring at the empty wall between the pieces.

“You know, people usually look at the art,” says a voice, and then Steve’s footsteps approach from behind. “Sorry.” He comes to a stop beside Bucky.

Bucky keeps looking straight ahead, only able to see a vague blur out of the corner of his eye. He wonders how he can possibly put any of this into words. The thought of it makes his stomach somersault, the idea of telling Steve why, it seems so horrible that he can’t imagine ever actually doing it. But he’s waiting. He’s here. He listened, last night. Bucky stares straight ahead and opens his mouth—

And Steve says, “You don’t have to explain.”

Bucky’s so surprised that he does turn and look. Steve gives him a small shrug. And Bucky looks back to the wall, and breathes out, and smiles just a little.

He goes the next day to Sam’s office in high spirits, undimmed by his usual apprehension of the next hour. It must show on his face, but Sam’s too professional. “How are you?” he asks.

“I’m good,” Bucky tells him. He’s not even lying. Still, he doesn’t really know how to proceed, and it kind of feels like any further questions will go places he doesn’t want them to. “I had a good two weeks.”

“Did you make any progress with the car?”

“Um—a little.” The truth is that he and Natasha have now met three times to work on sitting in a car, and each time it’s ended in a panic attack or something close. But— “I got one foot inside last time.”

Sam makes a note, smiling. “Great.”

Bucky waits for him to ask something, but, as usual, the silence extends, leaving up to him the decision of what comes next. He considers for a minute and then shrugs. “I just kind of wonder if it’ll ever be much better.”

“If it’s worth it, you mean?”

“No, if—like, obviously I want to be able to drive a car and take the subway again. But it’s taking so long and it’s—it’s a lot, you know, it’s hard.” Bucky fights against a sudden tightness in his throat. With Natasha, he thinks bitterly, it’s not this dramatic. She just knows. “And I know it’s not supposed to be easy or anything, but sometimes I just—I don’t know.” He sighs. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

Sam lets him sit for a few minutes before he says, “Take some time. If the words come to you, write it down, it can even be just on your phone. If you want, we can discuss this again sometime, but first you just have to be able to give a voice to what you’re feeling. That can take a while.”

“Okay,” Bucky mumbles, and he knows Sam’s well aware that this isn’t what he wanted to hear. The problem is that there’s nothing either of them can really do about it. “I was also thinking about the Fourth,” he says, mostly just so they can move on. “I know it’s barely even June, but some places are starting to sell fireworks.” When Sam doesn’t say anything, Bucky adds, “I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be a problem. Again. I still don’t like noises like that.”

Now Sam nods. “It’s good that you’re thinking about this already,” he says. “Sometimes even expecting and getting ready for triggers in advance can take away some of the negative effects.”

They’ve talked about this before. Bucky frowns. “But not always. I know what cars do to me, but I’m not exactly driving to work, am I?”

Sam inclines his head. “It’s not a one-size-fits-all thing, even for the same person. Have you come up with any ideas for what you’ll do this year?”

“Well, I won’t go watch the show,” Bucky states flatly. “Definitely not there yet. But I can’t really get out of town, so I just figured, I don’t know, I’d head down to the laundry room and turn the music up as high as it goes.”

“Do you know how Natasha’s planning to cope?”

“Same way.” Bucky snorts. “She said that’s what she did last year, when it was just her—before I’d left Bec’s. But,” he shrugs, “apparently it kind of sucked down there on her own. I’m not really looking forward to being underground, either. So we’re both hoping it’ll be better together.”

“Would you be comfortable inviting more people?” Sam asks. “Maybe if there are one or two others who don’t want to watch the fireworks, but aren’t as on-edge as you think you’ll be, it would be easier to distract yourselves.”

“Who’s gonna miss the fireworks, though?” But Sam spreads his hands in a _you-tell-me_ kind of gesture, so Bucky says, “I’ll think about it.”

After another few moments of silence, Sam shifts in his chair and pulls a few pieces of paper out of the pile on which his notebook rests. “There was another thing I wanted to talk about before we start to get pressed for time. Going back to the list we made at the start of our sessions, you wrote down ‘seeing the arm’ as one of your triggers. Do you want to elaborate on what you meant by that?”

Bucky vaguely remembers discussing this before, and he’s pretty sure he felt as reluctant then as he does now. “I just don’t like it,” he says. “It makes me remember.”

“Any time you see it?”

“No, I mean, I can use it,” Bucky says, “I do use it at home. But—I guess I try to avoid noticing too much. And I keep the scars covered up.”

Sam nods. His gaze drifts sideways, and Bucky fights to keep still. He feels like it would prove him wrong, somehow, if he were to squirm like he wants to. “Do you wear long sleeves every day?”

Not for the first time, Bucky thinks Sam might know Steve. “Yeah,” he says, and he can hear the defensive edge to his own voice. “I don’t like people looking at it, because then I notice, too.”

“What about Natasha?”

“She doesn’t look at it.” Bucky wonders where all of this is headed, but knows better than to ask.

“Well, it’s going to get pretty hot out soon,” Sam says. “Do you think you’ll start to wear shorter sleeves then?”

“At home, sure.” Bucky shrugs. “Maybe someday in public,” he adds, though he can’t see that happening. “I figure I can tough it out, stay in air conditioning. I’m stuck with the thing anyways. There’s no rush.”

For a long beat Sam just looks at him, and then he frowns, glancing down at the papers. “Actually,” he says slowly, “there’s a surgical program I’ve been reading up on since they presented at a conference a few weeks ago. It’s in West Seneca and they’re working on certain types of invasive surgeries. It’s fairly experimental at the moment, but—”

Sam’s still talking, his voice slow and calm and reassuring, but Bucky’s mostly stopped listening. He’s suddenly more aware of the arm at his side than he’s ever been before, the heavy weight of it resting against his body, and he almost imagines he can feel the plates that extend beneath his skin, fastening the whole thing to his bones. The idea of getting rid of it is literally breathtaking, but he’s not sure if it’s because he’s exhilarated or terrified. And now Sam’s fallen silent, watching him. “I don’t know,” Bucky says. “It’s…”

“If you want, I can send you more information,” Sam offers. “There’s no pressure to make any kind of a decision right away, and even if you were to decide you’re interested, there’s a waiting list.”

Bucky nods. “I’d like to know more.” His voice sounds a little distant, as if some loud noise has just made his ears ring. He doesn’t know what to do with his limbs, metal or otherwise. “If you—if you could send me some stuff, yeah, that’d be great.”

“I will.” Sam jots it down on his notepad and then hands a brochure to Bucky, who takes it without looking, too keyed-up now to focus on the print. “In the meantime, take some time to think about the fireworks, and keep working on the car—remember what I said about writing things down.”

But Bucky thinks, walking home, that he’ll be lucky if he ever knows what to say about this, either in person or in writing. Nothing’s changed, nothing’s even really happened, but the ground feels unsteady beneath his feet. He says nothing to Natasha, though, until the following morning, after he wakes in semi-darkness at four o’clock and stares at the ceiling for more than two hours. “There are some people who might be able to take off my arm,” he says at breakfast.

Natasha starts and whips her head up to look at him. “Like, you mean—?” She makes a chopping gesture at her own shoulder.

“Basically.”

“Wow.” Natasha stares at him for a few moments. “What do you mean, _might?”_

Bucky shrugs. “Sam said it’s still experimental. He said he’d send me more information later, too. And there’s a waiting list, but still…” She’s still staring, and he can’t read anything into the look, but the absence of outright curiosity or amazement makes it worse. “He gave me a brochure,” he adds, and goes back into his bedroom to get it, out of view of her eyes.

When he comes back, she’s got her expression under control, and there’s nothing but interest on her face as she takes the pamphlet. Nevertheless, it’s more than Bucky can bear to watch her read it, her eyes scanning the words intently, and so even though he’s not sure why he’s so affected, he mumbles some excuse and heads out the door.

Just being outside helps to clear his head a little. It’s cloudy but still warm, pretty hot even, and Sam’s right, it’s going to suck wearing long sleeves in the next few months, but he follows the crowds aimlessly to where two girls are creating a massive chalk artwork on a plaza. He stands and watches for a few minutes as their fractal mountain range grows and grows, complete with snowy caps above the treeline. He’s surprised at how quiet and calm they can be even in the rush of the city—and they don’t even look up, they’re so engrossed in their creation. When he moves on, he drops a few dollars into the bucket on the pavement.

He has this Saturday off, as luck would have it, so he doesn’t need to go to the community center, but he still doesn’t want to go back to the apartment, even if Natasha would probably be sensitive enough not to make him talk about his arm. Despite knowing that he _should_ talk about it. Feeling somehow a little guilty, he sits down in a bus stop and pulls out his phone.

The empty note app stares at him from the screen. Write things down, Sam said, but Bucky still has the feeling that any words he uses will be much too paltry. What can he even say? _I don’t,_ he types one-handed, and then, after a few seconds, _have any idea what I’m doing._ He deletes that. _I don’t know how to beat this,_ he tries again, but that’s not right, either. _I don’t know if I can beat this._ And he doesn’t like to see those words at all. He doesn’t want to think about what it means. Maybe it’s not accurate, maybe it’s not true. He deletes it and types, _I’m afraid,_ then looks up, trying to finish the thought. Afraid of what?

Someone gives a loud whoop outside, and at that exact moment there’s a huge clap of thunder. It’s like something out of a movie—immediately, rain begins to fall, and not showers, either. A storm that paints the pavement dark in seconds. People start crowding into the little bus shelter and Bucky edges out before the space gets too tight, with the consequence that he’s immediately soaked through. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and realizes that he isn’t actually quite sure where he is—things look vaguely familiar, but not enough for him to know which direction to go in. “Fuck,” he says to himself, rolling his eyes, and starts walking so at least he’s not just standing there.

Three blocks later, he’s even more turned around. He stands on a street corner and swivels, becoming more drenched by the second as he tries to spot a dry place to use pull up a map on his phone.

“Bucky?” says a voice behind him, half-shouting through the rain. “Is that you?”

Bucky turns around, flinging water from his hair, to see Steve under an American-flag-patterned umbrella. “Steve,” he says, “hey!”

“What are you doing here?”

“Um.” Bucky shrugs. “I’m a little turned around.”

“I live like a block and a half from here,” Steve says. “Want to come in until this lets up?”

“Uh—are you sure?”

Steve grins and rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m sure. You can’t walk around in this, come on.” And before Bucky has a chance to say anything, he turns around and walks off, leaving Bucky with no choice but to follow.

They reach Steve’s apartment building two minutes later. Bucky resists the urge to shake himself like a dog as soon as they get inside, but he’s dripping so much on the carpet that he feels ridiculous anyways. He follows Steve, a few steps behind, and they spend a silent forty seconds in the elevator to the seventh floor. He’s not sure if he should be embarrassed or not at being rescued from the rain like a half-drowned kitten.

When they step out, Steve beckons him down the hallway, fiddling with his keys, and opens the door to apartment 7C with a self-conscious flourish. “Shoes go on the mat.”

After he takes his shoes off—though it doesn’t help much, because his socks are wet, too—Bucky stands awkwardly in the little entryway, not wanting to touch anything but not sure how he’ll be able to avoid it. The place is tiny, cramped even, despite the airy yellow color of the walls, so that all the furniture crowds into any open space. It’s perfect for Steve, who’s threading his way through it with ease and is so slender anyways that elbow room isn’t a problem. But Bucky has never been small, and he’s still in good shape from his training and the long days in the garden. He feels absurdly gigantic, like Alice after eating the cake. “Question,” he says, and Steve looks at him. “Where should I step so I don’t ruin everything?”

Steve snorts. “You’re fine,” he says. “Just, um—hm.” After a second he hurries further into the apartment and returns with a towel, which he presses into Bucky’s arms. “There’s a bathroom there,” he says, pointing, “where you can dry off, and I don’t think I have anything that’ll fit you but if you want to wear an extra-extra-extra-large bathrobe then I can grab that.”

Bucky pauses with his hand on the doorknob of the bathroom. “I’ll just wring these out over the sink,” he says, and gestures to his sopping clothes. “But thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Alone in the bathroom, Bucky takes a moment to silently mouth _what the fuck_ before turning his back to the mirror and stripping off his shirt, pants, and socks. He does his best to get most of the water out of the fabric, and out of his hair, too. The problem is that the wet fabric clings to the metal arm at every point so that all the ridges and curves stand out in clear definition. In the end he gives up and slings the towel around his shoulders, which hides most of it. He balls his fist in his pocket.

When he comes out, Steve has shed his rain jacket and umbrella and is standing in front of the stove in the tiny kitchen, which has got to be about two square feet. “You like tea?” he says. “I figure if you don’t put any milk or sugar in it and you steep it long enough, it’ll be bitter enough to come close to coffee.”

“Guess we’ll see,” Bucky says. He takes a detour on his way over to the kitchen to drape his socks over the top of his shoes, then pauses to look at a tiny sculpture sitting on a shelf, a clay woman made entirely out of solid blocks and impossibly delicate rods. She’s painted in rich, matte red. “This is really cool,” he tells Steve.

“Thanks.” Bucky doesn’t turn to look, but he can hear that Steve’s smiling. “That one goes with the one on the windowsill.”

Carefully, Bucky makes his way across the room. The carpet is worn soft under his bare feet. Washed in a gray light by the lashing rain, there sits on the windowsill another sculpture, another woman, this time a glossy spring green—only the barest hint of shape, but still instantly recognizable as a person, and formed in flowing curves that almost look alive. Bucky wants to pick her up and take a closer look, but he’s afraid of breaking something, and in any case he’s distracted again.

Because next to the woman is a little cup filled with coffee beans, and out of the coffee beans sprouts a bouquet of pipe-cleaner-and-tissue-paper flowers. Bucky recognizes them as the ones he made. Despite today’s rain, they’re sun-faded, and any sensible person would have thrown them away by now—or at least put them somewhere other than directly next to the window, especially an artist—yet here they are. It’s been at least a month. Bucky grins and looks over at Steve, who cranes his neck curiously, then sees what he’s noticed and glances away, blushing.

For what must be the thousandth time, Bucky feels something pull tight in his chest, almost like panic, but it doesn’t feel bad at all. He scrubs a hand over his face to get rid of his stupidly wide smile, then pulls out his phone to let Natasha know that he’s doing okay—he knows she’ll give him hell if she doesn’t hear anything after he left so abruptly, if only out of concern. He unlocks his phone and is confronted with his blank note showing only the words _I’m afraid._

Whatever. He closes the app and texts Natasha— _staying dry, be back later_ —then slips his phone back into his damp pocket and goes over to Steve, who’s leaning on the counter looking through a pile of magazines and envelopes. “I’ve never had tea before,” he says.

“It’s just leaf water.” The dinged blue tea kettle on the stove starts to whistle, and Steve goes to turn off the burner. “Can you grab two mugs?” Steve asks. “They’re over the toaster.”

Bucky opens the cupboard and finds the most eclectic selection of mugs he’s ever seen, in various shapes, sizes, and colors. He grabs one painted with an elephant (the handle is shaped like a trunk) and one covered in garish rainbow dots. “What kind of tea is this?” he asks, watching as Steve pinches dark leaves into two rubber infusers.

“Black for you,” Steve says, “herbal for me. No caffeine.” He looks at the mugs and purses his lips. “Which one do you want?”

“Elephant,” Bucky says, “duh.”

“Oh, good.” Steve grabs both mugs and pours water into both of them, then adds the tea. “You take yours,” he says, “let’s go sit down.” He picks up his mug and picks his way toward the couch.

Bucky follows, unable to help noticing that Steve is using one hand to support himself on the furniture that he passes. He does his best not to be concerned, and then when they sit down he sees that Steve is looking at him expectantly. “What?” he asks, realizing belatedly that Steve has asked him a question.

“I said, do you like the rain? You went out without an umbrella or anything.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly mean to get caught in it, but yeah, I like it.” Bucky looks across the room at the blurry, rain-smeared windows and wishes he could open them—he knows that in the apartment Natasha will be letting the fresh air blow through the place. “Especially when it storms like this,” he continues, “and at night. When you can’t hear anything but the water, you know, and it pounds on the windows in the dark?” He shrugs. “I’ve loved that since I was a kid.”

Steve nods, but with a rueful smile. “I don’t get people like you,” he says. “Sunshine’s the best thing in the world.”

“You asked,” Bucky points out. “And I do like sun, I just like rain, too.” He frowns. “By the way, what the hell is up with your umbrella?”

“Oh, _shit,”_ Steve groans, throwing his head back against the couch in a way that Bucky tries very hard not to find distracting. “Uh—Tony gave that to me. As a joke. And I happen to not have another umbrella, so I get to choose between going around looking like an overly-patriotic asshole or getting pneumonia and dying. ‘Tis the season, though.”

“You don’t look like an idiot,” Bucky says. Steve just looks at him. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot.” Steve gestures to their mugs, leaning forward. “You should try your tea, see if it’s bitter enough for you yet.”

Bucky takes a sip, surprised by the taste, which is a little bitter but also surprisingly spicy. “It’s good,” he says, cupping his right hand around the mug to soak up the warmth. “Not too bitter.”

His mouth full of tea, Steve raises his eyebrows. He swallows and asks, “Does that detract from how good it is?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I like it,” he says.

“Maybe you should drink tea instead of coffee.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” Bucky shivers as a drop of water from his still-wet hair rolls down his neck, and uses the towel to pat his head as well as he can without revealing his arm. “Thanks again,” he says, looking across the room at the window, where the rain appears to be letting up. “For the tea, but also, you know, the shelter.”

Steve inclines his head. “No problem. Thanks for making a fool of yourself and using the elephant mug.”

“Any time,” Bucky replies, toasting him with it. “Is there anything new coming into the gallery?” he asks.

“Potentially.” Steve puts down his mug, getting that expression on his face that, Bucky knows from experience, means he’s excited but trying not to show it. “It wouldn’t be for a while,” he begins, “I’m talking maybe even a year from now, but—there’s an art festival put on by some people in Santa Fe that’s apparently going to be hosted in New York. People are gonna get real creative for it, obviously, and they’ll need galleries to showcase their work. So,” he shrugs, “we might have a bit more activity in the next few months. It might not happen,” Steve finishes in an attempt at nonchalance that completely fails.

“So what are you going to make for it?” Bucky asks.

“Who said anything about that?” Steve demands. “I run an art gallery, I don’t display my own work in it.”

“But you _are_ an artist, right?” Bucky grins at Steve’s expression, the way he won’t deny it. “So you’re gonna do something?”

“Well,” Steve says, and shrugs with one shoulder. Despite his best efforts, a smile spreads across his face. “I might have a few ideas.”

“Any chance you’ll give me a hint?”

“You wish.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky replies. He’s having a hard time looking away from Steve’s smile and forces himself to take another drink of tea. Then he doesn’t know where to go next, casting around aimlessly for something to say or do or even think—and what pops into his mind is _afraid of what?_ In this moment, he can’t think of a single thing. All he knows is that the sun is breaking weakly through the clouds outside the window and here, inside, he feels the warmth as if he’s sitting under clear blue skies. _Okay,_ he thinks, and gives up. “Do you want,” he says, “to go to a coffee shop and get non-caffeinated drinks sometime?”

He’s looking at Steve because he’s pretty sure that’s the right thing to do, and so he sees the moment when Steve’s face changes and his eyes widen an infinitesimal amount. He does an almost comical double-take. “Are you—are you doing that now?”

Steve only hesitated for half a second, but in that time Bucky has already thoroughly second-guessed himself. He wonders if he’s making assumptions—if Steve has changed his mind—if Bucky has just laid himself bare for no reason at all. “Yeah,” he says, his throat now dry. “I mean—well. Yeah.”

Then Steve opens his mouth, half-smiling, and hesitates for another moment before he says, “Yeah, I think that’d be nice.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, “cool.” But what now? His brain feels frozen in a horribly anxious excitement.

Steve breaks the silence. “Like, as a date, right, or—?”

“Yeah, yeah, a date,” Bucky rushes, his face just about melting.

“Right, yeah.” Steve hides his face as he takes another sip of his tea. “So, do you have an idea of where you might want to go?” he asks after a second. “For the drinks?”

Right. That’s what you’re supposed to do next. “Uh—not really,” Bucky says truthfully. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“In that case, I know a place. About a block from the gallery,” Steve says, pointing at the air as if there’s a map in front of him. “Allegretto. Do you know that one?”

“I’ve seen it,” Bucky says.

“You wanna go there?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, nodding. He’s relieved that Steve has an idea, and also a little embarrassed for not having thought of anything. “When are you free, then?”

“What do you think about Wednesday?”

Bucky’s disappointed at how far away that is, and glad that he has an excuse to ask for something earlier in the week. “I have a thing with Natasha that day, actually,” he says. Then he figures he’d better not seem overeager. “How’s Thursday for you?”

“Tuesday works better,” Steve replies. He’s smiling like he knows what Bucky’s just been thinking. “Breakfast? At eight?”

“All right.” It’s hitting Bucky, slowly, exactly what’s happening, and he bites his lip to keep his grin from taking over his whole face. And then he sees that Steve appears to be doing the same thing and has a ridiculous, giddy urge to laugh, which he stifles by reaching again, absurdly grateful that it’s there, for his mug.

He walks home in the strengthening sunshine with his clothes still damp. Natasha’s on the phone when he walks into the apartment, so he goes to his room, where he lies down on his bed and tries very hard not to feel like a dork for grinning at the ceiling. There’s so much energy still racing through his body that he doesn’t know what to do, can’t quite make sense of it all. And it’s not even as if anything’s changed—except that everything has.

That evening at dinner, he contemplates telling Natasha what happened at Steve’s, but he doesn’t know how to say it. Just opening his mouth and saying “I asked Steve on a date today” seems wrong, and he can’t call him his boyfriend, and what does a normal adult do about these kinds of social interactions? “How was your day?” he asks instead, as if they’re two normal people and his world has not shifted dramatically.

“Fine,” she says, somewhat shortly.

It takes him aback. “Oh?”

She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “I had a panic attack before teaching this morning. Dottie had to cover for me.”

Bucky’s stomach sinks. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t—I didn’t expect it, I thought I was good. And then I couldn’t breathe.” She inclines her head as if to say, _you know? _Bucky does, intimately. But just as he’s about to say so, to ask how she’s doing now, she shrugs. “Anyways, the afternoon was better. Except for this one guy who thought he was hot shit because he’s seen the original _Karate Kid.”_ She rolls her eyes, grinning.__

____

____

It takes Bucky a minute to answer, trying to tell from her expression if she means what she’s saying or if she’s fronting. “What an asshole,” he says when he can’t tell immediately. 

She scrubs a hand across her face. Fronting, then. “And I ran into Bruce, he said you’re going to be weeding for a while now, so have fun with that. You should say you’re shadowing me so you can get out of it.” Or maybe it’s genuine. 

Either way, Bucky doesn’t care to take the risk in case it makes her feel worse—he knows how it is to feel like someone else’s progress is just salt in your wound. Hell, he feels like that about Natasha half the time, though he knows it’s absurd given all that they’ve shared. So he keeps his mouth shut, lets her talk more about the know-it-all from her class, her hands steady and eyes clear, as if the doubt had never been there at all. 

He’s working in the garden Sunday afternoon when the worry finally breaks through his cloud of optimism. It starts when his left glove catches on a prickly weed and comes halfway off of his hand before he notices—after that, when he’s satisfied that nobody saw, he finds unease gnawing on the edges of his thoughts. Because he can remember now what he’s afraid of, and he can’t believe he forgot that there are things inside of him that nobody could ever, ever love. He almost wishes he had kept his mouth shut in Steve’s apartment, because it seems to him that his choice is now either to stand Steve up once again or to continue to keep it all a secret, and he isn’t sure which prospect is more painful. 

He’s restless all day after that, and through Monday as well, and on Tuesday he wakes up with dread and regret sitting heavy in his stomach, but he gets dressed and goes outside with plenty of time. He hates the thought of letting Steve down, but he at least knows that it would be horrible of him to do it silently. 

And then he walks up to the door of Allegretto and sees Steve through the glass, sitting at a table and doodling on a napkin. Just the sight of him makes Bucky’s heart jump behind his ribs. He hesitates with his hand stretched out to push the door open, and then Steve looks up and sees him, too. And Bucky thinks that they’ve been friends this long, and what’s stopping him, really, from keeping his mouth shut for a few months longer? He walks over to Steve’s table and sits down. “Morning.” 

“Morning,” Steve responds, clicking his pen shut and putting it in his pocket. He pushes the napkin towards Bucky. “What do you think?” 

Bucky takes a look. Roughly sketched on the cheap white paper is a man standing in a pose Bucky associates with Superman, his legs planted wide and his hands on his hips, atop the vague representation of a plinth. “Is it a sculpture or something?” 

“Or something,” Steve says, watching somewhat apprehensively. 

“It’s good,” Bucky tells him. It’s true. There are about three distinct lines in the whole picture, but Bucky can still tell what it’s supposed to be, and he even gets a sense of power and motion. It looks like it could be in a museum. “I knew you were an artist, by the way. Called it.” 

Steve half-nods and hides his smile. “We’ve all got something, I guess. What’s yours?” 

It takes Bucky a minute to realize that Steve’s actually serious. “What’s my secret?” he asks. 

“Secret talent, maybe,” Steve clarifies. 

“Ah.” Before Bucky can answer, a waiter approaches their table and asks for their order. Without thinking, Bucky orders a croissant and a black coffee. Steve orders hot chocolate. “No food?” Bucky asks as the waiter walks away. 

Steve shrugs. “Not hungry.” There’s something off about his tone, but half a second later he asks, “So, your secret talent?” and Bucky can’t think about it anymore. 

“I guess I’m good at, uh, gardening,” he supplies. “Well—not really. I’m just okay. I don’t know,” he says, laughing self-consciously. “I don’t think I have one?” 

“I don’t believe that,” Steve says, “but whatever. Secret hobby, then.” He rests his chin on his hand. “Everyone’s got one of those.” 

“Yeah, but they’re secret for a reason, aren’t they?” Bucky leans back in his chair and thinks. “Um… I really like auto work,” he says, “and biking, you know, motorcycles. I used to be pretty into it, actually. But I haven’t done anything in a long time now.” He shrugs. “And I don’t think it’s really secret, anyways.” 

“Well, it’s news to me,” Steve says. “Were you in a shop or anything? Or a club?” 

“Nah.” Bucky shakes his head. “Just something I’d do in the neighborhood, for friends. And the biking was nothing special. I was pretty good at it, I guess, but it was just casual.” 

“So why don’t you do it anymore?” 

It’s exactly the kind of question that Bucky was afraid of. And he knows Steve doesn’t mean anything by it, but he feels again that walled-off feeling, as if everyone around him—even Steve—isn’t quite on the same plane as he is. Why doesn’t he work with cars anymore? Or bikes? Why doesn’t he ride? The same reason he doesn’t have a hobby, or a talent, or much of anything these days. “It just kind of fell through the cracks,” he says. “What with, you know, one thing and another.” He knows that Steve _doesn’t_ know, and he can see his curiosity on his face. 

But Steve doesn’t ask, just nods, and the moment passes. Then their drinks and the croissant arrive. Over the mountain of whipped cream on his hot chocolate, Steve tells a story involving Peggy, a flagpole, and the process of choosing a wedding date, which is, apparently, complex, and slowly Bucky feels himself begin to relax. It’s not so different from the way they’ve talked for months now in the gallery. Only now Bucky feels less troubled by the quiet, tentative moments between them and the way his eyes linger on Steve’s mouth, even if he still doesn’t know quite what to do about it. They stay about an hour, and then they both have to work, and their goodbye is brief and casual because they both know Bucky will stop by the gallery later. It strikes Bucky that nothing has really changed. They still haven’t even given a name to whatever it is that they have. But maybe they’re getting closer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for vomiting and alcohol.

That night Bucky opens his eyes shortly after midnight to the sound of low moaning through the walls. He reacts before he’s even fully awake, hurrying blindly into Natasha’s room and tripping his way to her bed. “Romanoff,” he says, but she’s louder now, she can’t hear him. “Natasha! Wake up!” He reaches out and his right hand connects with what must be her ankle. “Wake up!”

She sits up gasping, clutching at her own throat. For a moment she heaves, and Bucky can hear her breath loud in the dark room. He sits completely still, waiting for her to make the next move. And then he hears that she’s crying.

Horribly, he’s still frozen. He knows how to bring Natasha back to life when her mind is somewhere else, how to slow her breathing when she can’t do it herself, how to calm her down when she doesn’t know him and all that’s in her eyes is danger. But he’s never seen her cry before. He realizes now that he’d barely believed her capable of it.

After several long seconds she jerks her ankle out of Bucky’s grip, which wasn’t tight, and pulls her legs up to her chest. She rests her chin on her knees; light from the window paints her face in silhouette. “How loud was I?” she asks quietly.

“Not too loud,” Bucky tells her, though he isn’t really sure. “Do you—can I do anything?”

“Just stay there.” So Bucky doesn’t move, and Natasha takes deep, even breaths, and the early-morning traffic continues to speed by in the street outside. “Sorry I woke you up,” she says after a while.

Bucky doesn’t know what he expected her to say, but it wasn’t that. “You don’t need to apologize,” he says.

“Well, I am sorry.” She wipes her eyes on the back of her hand and looks over at the window while the moonlight makes the tear tracks shine on her cheeks. “Did Sam ever send you more information about that experimental thing?” she asks. “For your arm?”

This change of subject surprises Bucky, too. Neither of them has mentioned that possibility since he left so abruptly on Saturday. But he doesn’t force the conversation back to the current moment. “Not yet.”

“What do you think you’re gonna do?”

“You mean, am I gonna have them—?” Bucky makes the same chopping motion towards his shoulder as she did before. “I don’t know,” he sighs. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s your choice,” she says, sounding steadier now. “Why’d Sam tell you about it, anyways? Do you want it off?”

Bucky tries to decipher the look in her eyes, but it’s difficult. She won’t look away, either, so he does instead. “I don’t know,” he says again. “Sam wanted me to think about my triggers. The arm came up. And then he said that there was this option.”

Natasha nods. “Did you read that brochure?”

He shakes his head. “It was—too overwhelming. Why?”

“Because it seems like a pretty interesting program,” she says. “It says they’ve got new techniques for these kinds of surgeries. No one’s done anything like it before.”

“Well, we already knew that.” Bucky tries not to scoff. “I mean, ‘experimental’ technology is how I wound up with this thing in the first place, right?”

“Yeah,” she says patiently, “I know—but just think. It’s tricky, but at least so far it looks like these guys could do it—even though it’s high-risk, invasive—”

“Stop,” Bucky says. The word comes out sharper than he intends, and he tries to soften it. “Please. I don’t want to talk about it right now.” They lapse back into silence then. Bucky feels guilty, because he’s in her bedroom, because she looks like she might cry again, because he doesn’t know what to do and because he’s beginning to think that there’s nothing he _can_ do. “Are you sure,” he begins hesitantly, “that I can’t help you somehow—?”

“Thanks,” she says, and runs both hands through her hair, “but I’ll be okay. It was just a nightmare.” She gives him the smallest of smiles. “If you really want to help? Close the door on your way out.”

It feels wrong, but Bucky knows what it’s like to wake up screaming, so he lets her be. He spends the next hour half-listening for noises from the next room over. There’s nothing, so eventually he falls asleep, and in the morning Natasha acts as if nothing happened. Then, as Bucky’s washing their breakfast dishes, she says, “By the way—Clint invited me out to his family farm or something for the Fourth of July. A little bit south of Hartford. And I think it’s absurd that he has a family farm, but anyways, it’s away from the noise of the city, and all of that. So do you maybe want to come?”

Once again, Bucky’s taken aback by the sudden shift in focus, but he’s starting to think it might be deliberate. “With you and Clint?” he asks. Natasha makes an affirmative noise from the table behind him. “Just the two of you?”

“I think there’s gonna be a bunch of people, actually,” Natasha says. “Clint made it sound like some kind of annual work trip, but he also said that it’s a lot of fun.”

“As long as there aren’t any fireworks,” Bucky says, starting to rinse the bowls. Then her words click in his brain. “Wait, a work trip? So that’s people from the gallery, right?”

“I think so.” Natasha takes the first bowl from him, a towel already in her hands. “Why, is that a deal-breaker for you?”

“No, it’s just—” Bucky purses his lips, irritated with himself for not having told Natasha about this sooner, still completely uncertain as to how he should say it now that circumstance is forcing his hand. “Steve and I might be dating, or something,” he tells her.

“Since when?” she demands, freezing in the act of putting the bowl back in the cabinet.

“Um, Saturday.” Bucky has to smile at the look on her face. “We went out for breakfast yesterday.”

“Oh.” Natasha recovers and shuts the cabinet. “How’s that?” she asks.

“Weird,” Bucky says truthfully. “But good. The thing is—nothing’s really different, but it feels like maybe it should be?” He shrugs.

“Well, you’re both very overdue,” Natasha tells him, smirking. “And Clint owes me ten bucks.”

—

He tells the story to Steve when he joins him at the gallery for lunch, and is relieved that he feels less self-conscious this time as Steve roars with laughter and signs something to Clint that earns him the middle finger. When Steve’s done laughing, though, Bucky does his best to avoid betraying his own anxiety as he says, “Natasha also said something about a Fourth of July trip.”

Steve nods, looking curious. “Clint’s got a farm in Haddam.”

“She invited me to come along.”

Steve nods again. Then he frowns. “Do you not want to come?”

Bucky pauses, starting to think he’s misunderstood something. “Well—I didn’t want to assume,” he says, “I mean, I don’t work here—and we just started, uh, you know, we’ve had one date and it was only four days ago. So I wanted to make sure.”

“That’s so thoughtful,” Steve says, and it’s clear from his voice that he means it completely in earnest. “But you don’t need to worry about it—I was going to invite you, actually.” His eyes wander searchingly over Bucky’s face. “Unless—I mean, unless you actually don’t want to come. Which is totally fine.”

“I do want to come,” Bucky assures him, and his feeling of relief intensifies. “Really. Thanks.” Steve shrugs modestly, but he’s smiling. “When exactly is the trip?”

“The whole weekend of the Fourth.” Steve shows him the calendar on his phone. “We were thinking of leaving on Thursday night, coming back Sunday afternoon. Does that work?”

“Definitely,” Bucky says fervently. In fact, he thinks, it could hardly work better—not only will he have an excuse to miss the Fourth in the city, but he’ll miss the whole lead-up, too, with everyone and their mother setting off fireworks when he least expects it. He makes a mental note to ask Bruce for that Friday off. “Anything I should bring?”

“Bug spray.” Steve furrows his brow at Bucky’s expression. “What is it?”

A distressing thought has just occurred to Bucky, jarring on the heels of his relief, and he wishes he’d hid it better—but maybe it’s for the best. “Do you guys usually set off fireworks?” he asks. “Out at Clint’s farm, I mean? Because I don’t wanna ruin your plans, so if that’s something you do then it’s probably better if I just—”

“Hey,” Steve says, “it’s fine.” He looks a little troubled, possibly at how worried Bucky is, but he stays relaxed, his hands in his pockets. “We actually don’t do fireworks. Peggy doesn’t like them, either. Clint said Natasha was concerned about that, too, but you guys don’t have to worry about it.”

“Oh.” Bucky takes a moment to absorb that, not sure how he should feel. He glances at Steve, who’s smiling tentatively, and has to smile back. “That’s awesome. I—” The alarm on his phone goes off, and when he dismisses it, he sees the message he left himself: _car time, fucker._ He suppresses a groan. “I have to go.”

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, looking even more concerned than before.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Bucky says, getting up, brandishing his phone. “I just have a kind of shitty appointment.”

Steve raises his eyebrows and whistles. “I know all about those.”

As he leaves, Bucky tries not to feel guilty for not telling Steve the whole truth, or disappointed about the fact that Steve probably has no basis of comparison whatsoever when it comes to shitty appointments. He’s only marginally successful, but he does his best to turn all of that into determination on his way to the back lot. “This is gonna be interesting,” he tells Natasha, walking up to her.

“How so?”

“In three weeks, I need to be able to sit in a car for two and a half hours.”

Natasha’s face betrays nothing, but she doesn’t respond for a few seconds. “You think you can do it?” she asks at last.

“Well, I have to, don’t I?”

Again, Natasha is silent. She watches as he stares at the station wagon, and maybe he’s hoping that the anticipation will do something other than make him more anxious, but of course it has the opposite effect. “Fuck this,” he snarls, fed up with himself. He marches up to the car, opens the door, closes his eyes before he has chance to see what he’s getting himself into, sits in the passenger seat, and pulls the door shut.

“Are you fucking insane?” he hears Natasha demand from outside, but he keeps his eyes shut tight. It’s okay, actually, if he takes deep breaths and if he doesn’t think about it. If he doesn’t think about it. If he doesn’t think about it. If he—

He scrabbles at the door, his eyes still shut tight, and by some miracle locates the handle. Forcing the door open, he escapes the car like a drowning person clawing their way to the surface, and collapses against the side. His legs are shaking, so he slides down to sit on the cracked asphalt.

“Barnes, you idiot,” Natasha says, crouching down two feet away, her face now a contortion of worry. “Take deep breaths.”

“I’m trying,” he says, pressing his palms into the ground so hard he can feel little pieces of grit embedding themselves into the skin of his right hand. He sucks in so much air his lungs hurt and spits it out again. And again. “How long was that?” he asks when his head stops spinning, offering as much of a smile as he can. “Two minutes?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, which is what he wanted. “Try thirty seconds.”

Bucky lets his head drop back against the car. “Shit. We’ve gotta multiply that, uh… three hundred times.”

“I really hope you’re joking,” she says.

God, he’d love to be joking. “It’s two and a half hours to Haddam. We’re—”

She interrupts him immediately. “Clint’s farm? That’s what this is about?”

He tilts his head forward to meet her gaze.

She stares back, solidly frustrated. “Two and a half hours is a long time.”

“I _fucking know,”_ Bucky snaps. “I went there every summer until I was sixteen.” He’s annoyed more with himself and the situation than with her, and he tries to soften his tone to show it, though it feels like talking through a mouthful of glass. “And in three weeks we’re all gonna be driving out there, and it’s way too long to bike, so I’ve gotta get this down.”

She purses her lips. “There has to be something else.”

“Unless I’m supposed to spend two days walking there,” Bucky says, “then, no, there isn’t.” He stares her down, daring her to suggest the obvious—that he just doesn’t go on the trip—and ignores his twinge of dread when she says nothing. “Besides,” he says, “it was taking too long anyways. About time we sped things up.” He grits his teeth and pushes himself to his feet.

“Are you going to do that again?” Natasha asks, standing up when he does.

“Maybe not that, exactly,” Bucky allows, both because she looks like she might try to stop him and because the idea of shutting himself in again makes his stomach churn. “And you don’t have to help,” he adds. “If you’re not—if it upsets you.”

“Of course it upsets me,” she says sharply. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.” She shakes her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, “it’ll work out. We’ve got three weeks.” And he takes a step towards the open passenger door.

In the next hour, Bucky forces himself to sit in the car—door still open—for a record of five straight minutes, with the result that he throws up on his own shoes and takes another fifteen minutes to breathe evenly again. They come back again the next day but he can’t manage to do more than stand with the door open before he starts sweating, and then on Friday afternoon Bucky sits in Sam’s office and tells him he’s making progress. He figures it’s true enough, though he’s not sure in which direction.

On Saturday night, after the fourth day in a row of trying to force himself to sit in the car, the nightmares start. He dreams they have him back again, and there’s a mask over his eyes and a guard in his mouth and they’re fastening his hands to something hard. He can hear them talking but he doesn’t understand the words. It seems to go on for hours. Finally, he recognizes the feel of what’s beneath his palms: it’s a steering wheel. Bucky wakes up in a cold sweat. It’s a pretty obvious message.

He wants to keep trying, but it gets so that he hates the car, so that he drags out the afternoons at work or at the gallery to put off getting started, not that their sessions run particularly long now anyways. So when Steve texts him about a street festival Bucky jumps at the chance. He tells Natasha over the buzz of the weed trimmer that they’ll have to cancel today—ignoring her look of approval and mirrored relief—then takes off half an hour early to get a real shower and walks through the warm afternoon to the place Steve suggested they meet. When he arrives on the appointed street corner, he finds Steve already standing there, leaning against the building. “You look thrilled about something,” Steve says. “My stellar company?”

“That helps,” Bucky says. It’s true; some of the lingering tension in his muscles drops away as Steve pushes off from the wall to walk alongside him, as if his very presence is relaxing. He breathes in deep and notices where Steve’s guiding them, towards what looks like several blocks packed with booths and stands and closed off to cars. Just as they pass the bright orange construction barriers, Steve slips his left hand into Bucky’s right, and when Bucky whips his head around, startled, Steve’s gazing idly at one of the first booths as if it’s nothing at all. Maybe, Bucky thinks, it is nothing to him. Easy as breathing. His grip is loose, so Bucky could pull his hand away if he wanted to—but he doesn’t want to. He keeps his hand where it is.

After a second, Steve smiles, but all he says is, “Anything you want to see?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “What kind of party is this, anyway?” He looks around to try to figure out if there’s a theme, some special occasion he’s unaware of.

“It’s the summer solstice,” Steve tells him. “Longest day of the year.”

“Oh, right,” Bucky says, “I knew that.” He grins as Steve laughs. “Seriously, though, what is there to see?”

Steve shrugs. “Lots. You want art, entertainment, culture, or food first?”

“What does ‘culture’ mean, exactly?”

“Okay, culture first.” Steve pulls him forward by the hand. They wind up in a small park adjacent to the blocked-off streets, where a heavily-supervised fire is roaring several feet high.

“Are you Swedish?” Bucky asks, glancing at the Maypole a dozen yards away. Small children in blue and yellow uniforms are sitting on the grass.

Steve shakes his head. “Irish. We do midsummer bonfires, too. But the Hungarians are the ones who jump over it.”

“Wait, what?” Bucky stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” Steve looks immensely pleased at this reaction. “And this is where it’s happening, by the way. Later tonight.”

“Sick,” Bucky says, earning another laugh. “So they’re co-opting the Swedish fire?”

“Well, the city wouldn’t let them have two fires.” In response to Bucky’s questioning look, Steve says, “The woman two doors down from me is Hungarian. I hear a lot about it in the laundry room.”

“When does the fire-jumping start?”

“Sunset,” Steve says, and then chuckles. “I have no idea when that is.”

So they check out the art displays, of course, and Bucky hangs back while Steve gets into a technical-sounding discussion at a pottery stall. He doesn’t mind. He gets the same fascinated feeling he did briefly at the Met when Steve showed him the painting of the old woman—like there’s something he’s missing, something Steve knows intimately. It’s plain on Steve’s face that there’s something to love here, but Bucky can’t tell quite what it is. For the moment he’s content just to watch Steve make emphatic gestures and run his fingers over glaze that is apparently “fuckin’ unreal, Bucky, I mean it.”

They buy corn cakes from a Brazilian vendor and eat them as they walk, and Steve dawdles, going so slowly that Bucky has no choice but to appreciate his eye for detail. It’s true, he finds, Steve really does like abstract art, passing over painted scenes and floral designs in favor of random collections of geometric shapes. Then they’re both captivated by a kid on a unicycle who barely seems to touch the ground, and when Steve suggests that they sit down, Bucky doesn’t feel like they’re missing anything at all.

The sun’s just slipped below the horizon and the shadows are thick now, making the bonfire stand out in the deep gloom. They sit on the grass close enough to feel the warmth but far enough away to avoid getting stepped on by everyone milling around. Bucky watches the flames for a minute, watches the people who are ostensibly going to jump over the fire, who have lined up, then looks at Steve and is startled to see that he’s got his eyes closed, resting his head in his hands. “Hey,” he says, “you okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his eyes still closed. After a moment he opens them and gives Bucky a smile that looks strangely awkward. “I kinda fucked up, that’s all.”

“What do you mean?” The first person jumps over the flames to general applause, but Bucky doesn’t turn.

“It just—probably wasn’t the best idea for me to come here tonight.”

Bucky frowns. His first instinct is to make a joke, maybe about the absurdity of getting banned from a midsummer festival, but the expression on Steve’s face stops him. He looks almost afraid. “Why not?” Bucky asks.

Steve bites down on his bottom lip and looks away. “I should have told you this earlier,” he says. “I should—I’m sorry,” he says, and takes a deep breath. “I have a disorder,” he says, “called chronic fatigue syndrome.” He’s looking at the ground, not moving at all. “Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Bucky admits.

Steve nods and sighs. “It’s—I’m in remission. I’ve been, uh, mostly okay for about three years now. But…” He shrugs. “It’s bad. And I—really, I should have said something before.”

“What is it, though?” Bucky asks.

It’s clear that Steve’s more upset about this than he wants to let on; he’s frowning at the grass, his fingers plucking nervously at individual blades. “It’s like every part of you is tired,” he says, “bone tired, so tired it hurts, and nothing you do helps. No matter how much you sleep. It’s like suffocating.” Like he’s afraid of what he’ll see, he glances back to Bucky. “It’s, well, it’s hell on earth. And, um, not just for me. When it’s—if it gets bad again—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “I don’t want you to feel—obligated.”

Of all the things Bucky had expected him to say, this was not one of them, and so he opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finds his voice. “Obligated,” he says slowly, “to, what, stick with you?”

“Well, no,” Steve says, slightly breathless, “not exactly. Obligated to—to—I don’t know, obligated to stick around longer than you want to. I know we just started this,” he says, waving a vague hand at the air between and around them. “So it’s, you know, fine if you’re not on board. If you’d rather not. Because it’s a lot to ask. And I didn’t even tell you—I mean, before any of this. But maybe I should’ve, ‘cause—you deserve to know. What you’re getting into, I mean. If you want to.” His voice is speeding up, growing more and more anxious. “It was kind of a dick move on my part to keep it from you. So I get it if you—”

“Listen,” Bucky interrupts, “I just found out, yeah, and I know I know next to nothing about this, but you being sick doesn’t make me like you any less. Or make me reconsider, or whatever. Definitely not just the fact that you didn’t me right away. Seems like that would be kind of a dick move on my part, too.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. He looks at Bucky again, his face half in shadow, the other half painted golden by the firelight. “Okay,” he says, somewhat dubiously, “but just—” He stops, takes another deep, steadying breath. “If you ever do feel like it’s too much,” he says, “or—or anything, just tell me, okay?”

There’s something there beneath the question, some dark twist to Steve’s words that makes Bucky think he’s speaking from experience. It puts an ache in Bucky’s heart, sympathy for whatever hurt he’s felt, and a desire to not make him repeat it—and he starts to feel a tiny part of the pain Steve is trying to impress upon him. Or maybe he’s trying to warn him away. It doesn’t change Bucky’s answer. “I promise,” he says, meeting Steve’s wide-eyed gaze.

“Thanks,” Steve says in a very small voice. Then he clears his throat and looks at the fire, glowing brilliantly against the darkness which has fallen even more completely now.

“So, uh—regarding tonight,” Bucky says, “when you said maybe you shouldn’t have come here…?”

“If I try to do too much,” Steve says quietly, “if I overexert myself, I can wind up in trouble.” He shrugs. “Like I said, it’s hell. But I’m okay,” he adds. “Since we took a break. That helps a lot.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, “all right.” He doesn’t miss the hasty, reassuring tone in Steve’s voice, and wonders how much is just bravado of the kind Natasha can always see right through. Then, as the silence progresses, Bucky wonders if it’s up to him to say something. He can’t think of much. Well—he can think of a million things, but none of them seem like a good idea. He remembers the museum, how Steve left so suddenly, all the days when he stayed in his chair and let Bucky do the talking or didn’t come to the gallery at all.

And that’s all well and fine, but he still needs to say something before Steve gets more distressed. There’s no one jumping over the fire now—in fact, most of the crowd has dispersed. Everyone who’s left is, like them, sitting quietly, not saying much. “This was a great idea,” Bucky says, “this festival.”

Steve raises one eyebrow. “You mean it?”

“I never go to this kind of stuff,” Bucky explains. “I don’t—I don’t really get out much, I guess. Didn’t even know this was going on. So I’m real glad you suggested it.”

“Well,” Steve says, and then he’s quiet again, but it’s not the same silence as before.

The awkwardness has gone entirely by the time they agree to head home, when the fire is starting to smolder a bit. “How far do you have to go?” Bucky asks as they leave the park.

“I’ll take the subway back,” Steve says. “I know you’re not—”

“I can still walk you to your station,” Bucky offers. “If you want.”

“Hmm,” Steve says, “that sounds fine.” And he takes Bucky’s hand again.

They darkness as they walk through the streets seems deeper tonight, somehow, like the light from the street lamps and cars and bright neon displays doesn’t quite reach as far. Maybe it’s for that reason that they draw closer together. Maybe it’s something else. All Bucky knows is that he’s very aware of Steve at his side, his warmth and his weight that shifts with every step.

“You know I used to be afraid of the dark?” Steve says softly as they’re waiting to cross at a stoplight. “Terrified. Even when I was way too old for it. And in the city that never sleeps—it just didn’t make sense.”

“It was heights, for me,” Bucky says. “Kind of ridiculous when you think about how I lived on the tenth goddamn floor growing up.” The light turns and they start walking again. He doesn’t mention that the fear never really left him until years later—that it seemed like some sort of divine punishment on that rattling train with the wind whipping through his hair and an abyss opening up beneath his feet.

They turn a corner and see the subway entrance up ahead. “Good thing we got over those,” Steve says. “Imagine missing out on the city when it’s like this.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, though he thinks he might know what Steve means.

“I mean, look at it,” Steve says, but he doesn’t say it like Bucky’s being dumb. They stop and lean on the railing next to the steps that lead down to the trains. “Just look up.”

So Bucky does. He already knows he’ll see lights—maybe it’s the way Steve has set it up, with his closeness and the slowness of his voice, but tonight it’s all breathtaking. The buildings reach up as high as ever, the yellow squares of windows blending together in the upper stories, and a plane flies over them blinking like a shooting star against the sky. They grow small, standing there on the ground, faces tilted upwards and the night all around them. “I see what you mean,” Bucky says. He’s nearly whispering, and doesn’t know why.

“Makes you feel tiny,” Steve says.

Bucky turns and looks at him, surprised, secretly thrilled, and finds that Steve’s looking at him, too, their faces just a few inches apart. It sends a jolt of energy through Bucky’s stomach and his heart jumps in his chest. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“It’s not so bad, though.” Steve smiles slightly, not looking away. All the lights wash his face in color. “Sometimes it’s kind of nice.”

His pulse is still racing, and it makes his breath come faster. “What,” he asks, “being cosmically insignificant?”

Steve laughs into the small space between their bodies. “I think that’s comforting,” he says. “There’s nothing to make sense of. It’s just us,” he says, “just here.” His gaze is wide, and close, and so blue—

And all at once Bucky knows what Steve’s going to do just before he does it, and he’s ready, and he even wants it, but as their lips touch his heartbeat screams in his ears and his throat squeezes shut, and it’s not because he’s nervous. He pushes Steve away, frightened, and stumbles back against the railing where he tries to catch his breath.

“Fuck,” Steve’s saying, “shit, Bucky, I’m—are you okay? I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says. It’s already easier to breathe, though his heart’s still beating painfully fast and there’s tension crackling along his spine. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Steve insists, “I shouldn’t’ve—I should’ve asked. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Bucky tells him, trying to force himself to calm down, and to his surprise it starts to work—if only because he doesn’t want to see Steve freak out like this. “It’s not your fault. It’s—it’s just stupid.”

He says it with such vehemence that Steve stops talking and blinks at him. “What—?”

“I,” Bucky says, and tries quickly to think of how to explain this. He really should have planned this earlier. But he didn’t _think,_ and that’s the whole problem. “I have a problem,” he says, “with things getting—uh, too close. If there’s no warning. And I wasn’t really expecting—I didn’t think that, well, that this would bring it out.”

“I should’ve asked,” Steve says again, though he seems calmer now, at least, and that helps Bucky to relax, too. “I’m sorry, Bucky.”

“You don’t need to be.” Bucky moves forward and takes Steve’s hand again, as gentle as he can. “It’s just bad luck. I’m all right.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, holding on tight. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I’m fine.” He tells it to himself, too, and believes it. And looking at Steve, who looks back, he remembers what he wanted not more than a minute ago. “Can we try that again?” he asks. “It—it really wasn’t your fault. I’d hate to think my brain ruined everything.”

Brilliantly, disbelievingly, Steve grins. “Your brain,” he says, “didn’t ruin anything.”

“That’s a relief,” Bucky says, but what comes next is easier said than done. He isn’t sure, exactly, how to get back to where they were.

Steve doesn’t seem quite sure either. He moves his hand up Bucky’s arm, drawing him closer but still keeping several inches between them—his eyes move back and forth over Bucky’s face with a frenetic worry. “Are you okay?” he asks for the third time.

Bucky finally hears it—the genuine question behind the words, as if Steve really wants to know. He nods, still amazed that it’s true.

“How about now?” Steve asks, placing his other hand against Bucky’s face, thumb against his cheekbone.

The touch is so gentle, so slow, that Bucky can hardly feel it on his skin—except for the way it brings his body alive, sensation thrilling from those few inches of contact and flooding his veins with warmth. “It’s fine,” Bucky says, and it’s so much of an understatement that he bites down on a laugh.

Hesitant, Steve leans in, and there’s a question in his eyes—on his lips—on the air between them. He’s half a foot away, then mere inches, and his hand is so warm, the press of it so light and soft. The lights of the city are mirrored in his eyes. “Is this...?” Steve breathes, holding still, giving Bucky time.

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers back, and all he feels in the moment is the weight of anticipation, the sweetness of wanting. Yes, it’s all right, yes, it’s amazing. And it’s simple when he knows it’s coming, the ultimate press of Steve’s mouth on his own; his lips are soft, gentler even than the touch of his hand had been. Bucky shivers, but there’s no panic in it: just the pleasure of knowing how close they are. He raises his hand to Steve’s jaw and for a long, sweet moment it’s just the two of them together in the darkness.

—

Bucky spends a significant portion of the following morning reliving those moments in his mind, feeling a strange mixture of euphoria and mortification. He’s amazed, and slightly relieved, that Steve wanted to kiss him at all, and to think that he did so even after Bucky literally shoved him away and came close to having a goddamn panic attack… Yet part of him can’t help worrying that Steve’s politeness must have been little more than that. And he doesn’t have time to visit the gallery today, so there’s no way to know for sure.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t actually have the luxury of being so distracted, since they’re carting replacement irrigation equipment up to the roof and bringing the old ones down, so there’s a large fee and a few broken toes awaiting anyone who screws up. The third time he almost drops something, Bruce takes him aside and asks him if anything’s wrong and if maybe he should call it a day and get some rest. Bucky apologizes and tries, for the rest of the afternoon, to think of something else.

All he can manage, though, is to think about the festival preceding the kiss, and then about what Steve told him as they sat in the park. Chronic fatigue syndrome. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard of it in his life. He looks it up the next day on his lunch break. What he finds is basically what Steve told him, as well as a few statistics. There’s a recovery rate of about five percent and a strong possibility of relapse after stress or overworking.

After reading that, he doesn’t know quite what to think. He understands now—somewhat—why Steve might have been worried that Bucky would want to leave. More than that, he thinks he understands Steve’s fear in the park, his hesitation and the way he wouldn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. He admires Steve for saying something in spite of that—how many times has Bucky stayed quiet, kept his secrets to himself? Steve, he thinks, is braver than Bucky knows how to be.

“I can’t,” he says that afternoon, standing a yard and a half away from Clint’s station wagon in the empty lot, certain that if he goes any closer he’ll break down completely. “I can’t do it—it’s not gonna work.”

Natasha has the grace not to look too superior. “I think,” she says after a second, “that it’s probably for the best.”

Bucky sighs. “I know. But—” he shakes his head. “I don’t know what we’re—what _I’m_ gonna do about Connecticut.”

“Maybe you could take a boat,” Natasha suggests, half-smiling.

He appreciates the attempt, but the joke still falls flat. “I just really wanted to go,” he confesses, seeing in his mind’s eye the gray walls and flickering bulb of the laundry room where he knows he’ll have to spend the Fourth of July, and probably the nights of the third and fifth as well. “And I—I don’t want to have to tell Steve,” he adds.

At that, Natasha frowns. “Why not?”

“Because,” he says, “he’s such a—he cares so much, you know, and I’m not a good enough liar to make it seem like no big deal. Not to him. And he’ll feel bad, and I don’t want him to.”

“Well,” she says, blinking, “have you tried talking to him about it?”

He’s about to snap out some retort or other when he stops, and realizes that, no, he hadn’t actually considered that. Not really. Wallowing, yes. Brushing it off, yes. Being open—somehow that didn’t cross his mind. He remembers, again, Steve’s admission in the park. The courage that must have taken. More than that, the trust. And he figures that if he wants to do things right, then he doesn’t have much of a choice.

He was already planning on going to see Steve at the gallery afterwards, so he just heads there earlier, dragging his feet, trying to prepare. He hasn’t seen Steve since they kissed, since Steve pulled away and smiled and they made plans to meet today. It’s been less than twenty-four hours, but that feels, to his frayed nerves, like inexcusable negligence. And to come back now, with this kind of news... As he walks into the gallery, Steve looks up from the desk and smiles, somewhat hesitant. Bucky smiles back, feeling false and unworthy. “Hi,” he says, and the rest comes out in a rush. “Listen, I—I’m not going to be able to go with you guys to Clint’s farm.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and though he looks disappointed, he doesn’t look crushed as Bucky had feared. Like Natasha, he asks, “Why not?”

Bucky gazes at Steve and is afraid. “I said a while ago that I—that I walk everywhere.” Steve nods. “That’s, um, because I can’t do cars. Or trains, like I said before. It’s, uh, really any enclosed space, and it’s worse if there’s an engine or something loud like that. Anything that shakes.”

“Oh, God,” Steve says, “right. The claustrophobia.”

“It’s—yeah.” He wonders if Steve’s rethought this whole thing, dating someone who can’t even kiss properly or ride in a car. “It’s just—it’s really bad,” he says, “and I’ve been trying to, you know, work up to it—but I don’t think I can make that trip.”

“Ah, shit,” Steve says, frowning down at the desk. “That’s some bad luck.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, miserable.

“Well, it’s not your fault,” says Steve, shaking his head. “It’s—hey!” He looks up quickly. “What did you say? Enclosed spaces, that’s what does it?”

“Um—” Bucky hesitates, taken aback. “Yeah, mostly.”

And then Steve does the last thing Bucky expects: he grins, wide and gleeful. “Oh, this is great.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s gonna be fine,” Steve assures him, “you can come. And Tony’s gonna—shit,” he laughs, “Tony’s gonna love this.” He pulls out his phone, still chuckling. “He has a convertible,” he explains, looking up at Bucky. “But he doesn’t want to drive it in the city because it’s like his child.”

“A convertible?” Bucky repeats. “That’s—wow,” he says, “that might actually work.” All at once, he’s light as a feather. “You don’t think Tony will mind?” he asks. At the same time, he wonders what it would be like to ride in a car for two to three hours with Tony Stark, who in Bucky’s limited experience is more asshole than not.

“Nah,” Steve says, “he’ll be thrilled. He’s driven it for a total of about twenty-five minutes so far. This is a dream come true.”

And it certainly feels that way. They go back to the park on Tuesday, and Bucky would worry that he seems too eager, except that Steve shows up with flowers in his hand, a shit-eating grin on his face, and a kite tucked under one arm. “These are for you,” he says, handing them to Bucky.

Bucky sniffs them: they smell like nothing. “You aren’t allergic to these ones?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” Steve says, winking.

They see each other again on Thursday and spend an afternoon talking in the back room of the gallery—something they’ve done literally dozens of times before, except now Steve holds his hand and pauses mid-sentence to kiss his knuckles while Jarvis makes his home on Bucky’s lap. It’s good—it’s amazing—and so Bucky is there for Steve’s shift on Sunday, too.

The next week is a blur of anticipation and giddy joy. An evening at the movies, a morning drinking tea with the window open. Time becomes a blur of countless glowing moments—Bucky grows used to the feel of Steve’s fingers twined with his, treasures the sound of his laugh when he’s surprised, which is different from his laugh when he’s made a bad joke. His hair that smells like some sweet shampoo, his voice curling around Bucky’s name, his lips tinged with earthy tea and soft on Bucky’s own.

—

He sends an email to Sam on Thursday afternoon, letting him know that he won’t be at their session on Friday and apologizing for the short notice, and then he throws some clothes into a duffel bag and resists the urge to wait for Natasha at the door. She raises an eyebrow at him anyways when she comes in and sees him sitting on the couch with his feet on top of the duffel. “What?” he asks, spreading his hands. “I’m prepared.”

“You’re like a little kid,” she teases.

“When was the last time you got out of the city?” he challenges. “Don’t tell me you’re not looking forward to this.”

She grins and goes into her room. When she comes back out, she’s carrying a bag, too.

Steve texted him Tony’s address that morning, so they head out at half past four and make it there by five o’clock to find Clint, Steve, Peggy, and an unfamiliar woman with bright orange hair in the parking lot, clustered around Clint’s blue station wagon. Tony and his car are nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” Natasha says, reaching the group first. “What’s going on?”

Smiling at Bucky, Steve answers her question. “We can leave in like two seconds,” he says, “there’s just—uh—something to do first.”

Peggy snorts, looking like she’s having difficulty restraining herself from either laughing outright or rolling her eyes. Clint, on the other hand, has given up and is laughing silently into his hand.

“What is it?” Bucky asks, glancing from one to the other.

The mystery is solved half a second later, when a car comes screaming around the side of the building, cherry-red, streamlined, tires screeching on the asphalt. Behind the wheel is Tony, and perched on top of the back seats like some kind of old-time movie star is a woman wearing huge sunglasses and a scarf that streams out in the wind behind her. She’s whooping, and as the car comes to a stop she starts laughing, delighted.

“Shit,” Clint says, his eyes wide, “look what you did to the lot.” He’s pointing at the wide black streaks left on the pavement, though the smell of burning rubber speaks for itself.

Tony gets out of the car, grinning. “It was Angie’s idea, too.”

“Thanks a lot,” says the woman, hopping down and taking off the sunglasses. “What do you think, Pegs, did I look good?”

“Beautiful,” Peggy tells her. “Like the second coming of Rita Hayworth.”

Angie punches the air, then extends a hand to Bucky. “You must be Bucky.”

Bucky nods and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

She flashes him a wide smile. “Charmed.” Turning back to Tony, she says, “Thanks, really. Now I’m going to behave sensibly, so I’ll see you in Haddam.”

“Drive safe,” says the orange-haired woman, taking the sunglasses from Angie. As Angie, Peggy, Clint, and Natasha start piling their things into the trunk of the station wagon, the woman hits the glasses against Tony’s shoulder. “None of that on the highway, though.”

Tony sighs, still smiling. “If you insist.” He pops the trunk on the convertible.

“This is Pepper,” Steve says to Bucky, gesturing between them.

“Oh, sorry, hi.” Pepper shakes his hand, too.

“Do you work at the gallery?” Bucky asks, wondering how he’s never seen her before.

“Uh—no,” she says, “I’m Tony’s wife.”

“Sorry,” Bucky rushes as Steve snickers unhelpfully at his side. “I, um—”

“Don’t apologize,” Tony says, re-emerging now that everyone’s bags are in the car. “This is great. I’m not immediately recognizable as a kept man.”

Everyone laughs, and Tony apologizes, and they get in the car. As they pull out of the lot—Pepper laying a restraining hand over Tony’s on the console—Bucky says to Steve, “Sorry for insulting your friends.”

Steve shakes his head, and Pepper throws a smile to them in the back seat. “The sooner you get used to that,” she says, “the better.”

“It’s how we show affection,” Steve explains. There’s not a lot of room in the back, and he’s pressed pretty close to Bucky, but it’s not uncomfortable. “You think this’ll work?” he asks.

It takes Bucky a moment to realize that he’s talking about more than just their proximity to one another. “Yeah,” he says, “it’s perfect.” The engine’s thrumming beneath him, but without the closed-in box of walls and roof, he doesn’t feel the usual danger from the machine. He settles in and allows it to fill him up: the sunshine, the chatter around him, the wind as they pick up speed. He smiles, sticks his hand out into the current of air next to the car like a dog with its head out the window. Steve sees and laughs, and the wind carries it away.

By the time they reach Haddam, having stopped for dinner on the way, the shadows are long and the air has taken on a chill that makes the wind slightly less enjoyable. Bucky’s started to recognize landmarks, too, which makes him feel nostalgic and strangely guilty. It’s been a good ride, but all in all, he’s glad when Tony takes a gravel side road and they slow down, approaching a house in the middle of a forest-ringed field.

The house is bigger up close than it appears from the road, and the station wagon is already parked on the dusty drive when they pull up. There’s a light on inside. “Home sweet home,” Tony hums, disengaging the key. The car shudders and is still.

“Does this fit everyone?” Bucky asks, looking up at the house. It’s bigger—but not, he thinks, big enough to fit eight people. Unless… He does the math in his head. Tony and Pepper are married, so they’ll more than likely share a bed, and so, he imagines, will Angie and Peggy. He honestly has no idea what Natasha and Clint have planned, though it makes sense that Clint might at least have his own bed, since he owns the place, and then the truly unsettling thought hits him—what if Steve expects him to—?

“Sure,” Steve says, oblivious to the lightning-quick breakdown taking place inside Bucky, “if we squeeze. And I call dibs on the couch.”

He’s already moving, heading towards the front door. “The couch?” Bucky asks, snagging his bag out of the trunk and following a few steps behind. “Why do you sound so pleased about that?”

“Because Clint’s couch is amazing,” Steve says. He shoulders his way through the door and holds it open for Bucky to walk through. “He’s also got a really great futon, though, so don’t worry—hey, no, I called dibs!”

“We’re _sitting,”_ Clint says, looking over from where he and Natasha are, indeed, sitting on the couch. “And you can’t call dibs if only half the group can hear you.”

“Well, I’m calling it now,” Steve says, and marches over to drop his bag on the empty end. “C’mon,” he says to Bucky, “the futon’s downstairs.”

Feeling relieved, but also apprehensive, Bucky follows Steve down into the basement. The lower level in his aunt’s house, he remembers, where his sister lives now, wasn’t finished and had a ratio of about one spider per square foot. Then Steve turns on the light to reveal a small room with a soft carpet and a futon against one wall. The rest of the space is taken up by a pool table, and there’s not much room left over, but the light’s more than just a bare bulb and there’s not a spider in sight, so Bucky can’t complain.

“Sheets are upstairs, actually,” Steve says, “oops. But you can grab those later. Is there, uh, anything else you need?”

“No,” Bucky says truthfully, “I think I’m set.” He sets his duffel down next to the futon. On the way back up the stairs, he asks, “Where will everyone else sleep?”

Steve starts rattling off names, ticking them off on his fingers as he goes. “I’m always on the couch, Tony and Pepper get one of the upstairs bedrooms, Angie and Peggy get the other. Clint usually stakes down a tent in the field—don’t ask me why, it’s his house.” He pauses. “I’m not sure about Natasha, actually. Did she say what she was going to do?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t know what to expect until we got here. If Clint gave her options beforehand, she didn’t mention anything to me.”

In the living room, Natasha’s nowhere to be seen. Angie informs them that she’s outside with Clint, setting up the spare tent near his. Bucky raises his eyebrows and Steve whistles. And then someone puts on the music, and Pepper pours wine—“Clint brings the food, but he has awful taste in alcohol”—for those who want it. After that, the evening is a little bit of a blur. There are a lot of unfamiliar names and places mentioned, events referenced that Bucky and Natasha were never privy to, but Bucky doesn’t feel excluded. It’s not like that, he realizes, and at the same time he realizes that although he barely knows most of the people here, he could almost call them friends.

He realizes the hour when he looks over to ask Steve a question and finds him asleep on the couch. He smiles to see it.

Clint catches it, though the others, clustered around Tony’s phone in the kitchen, are oblivious. “We would’ve given him the couch even without the dibs,” he says, leaning his chair back on two legs. “He’s a sleepy guy. And this is, to be honest, a fucking magical piece of furniture.”

“That’s what Steve said earlier,” Bucky tells him. “What’s so great about it?”

“This couch,” Clint says, patting the arm, “has been in my family since I was a kid.”

“That’s not actually a super long t—”

“Shut up. That’s a nice, long life for a couch. And it’s only become more comfortable in that time. If you ever get a chance, meaning if Steve ever moves his ass over, you have got to take a minute and try it out. It’ll change your life.”

“Wait,” Natasha says, coming over and sitting down between them. “The couch that’ll change your life? Yeah, Barnes, don’t believe it. He said the same thing about the armchair in his apartment.”

“They’re both incredible!”

“They’re both faux-leather and they both smell a little.” Natasha grins at Clint’s mock outrage. “They’re just about average.”

Clint just laughs.

Bucky looks between them. “So, can I ask now? How did you guys meet?” He thinks back. “Didn’t you say you almost killed each other?”

“She started the killing part,” Clint says, “but it’s my fault, really.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh, accidentally smacked her butt at the gym.”

“Accidentally?” Bucky repeats, starting to grin, staring from Clint to Natasha. “I mean, he’s gotta be telling the truth if he’s still breathing, but—”

“I didn’t have my hearing aids in,” Clint explains, “and there was no one behind me when I turned around, and then I lost my balance for a second—just a second!—but I was kinda wildly flailing my arms around and, well, you can imagine.”

“And I,” Natasha continues, “was in the zone, obviously, so I turned around and grabbed his arm, and he dragged us both off-balance like some kind of weird tumbling event. And it freaked me out and I put him on the ground.”

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t think you expected me to flip you over, though.”

She snorts. “No, not really. It surprised me so much I stopped trying to throw you off.”

Bucky can picture it. But there’s one thing that doesn’t make sense. “Do you have combat training?” he asks Clint, frowning.

“Not exactly,” Clint says, “but I was almost in the FBI.”

“Are you kidding me?” Bucky demands as Natasha grins behind her hand. “What stopped you?”

“All the rules.” Clint shrugs. “And I did some hard thinking and decided there was some pretty shady stuff I’d rather not have my name attached do.”

“Oh.” Bucky nods. “That’s fair.” He forces himself to move on from the suddenly sobering thoughts that have occurred to him and chuckles. “I’d love to have seen your face, man. How’d the rest of the gym react?”

“They kicked us out,” Natasha says unabashedly. “Revoked our memberships. So we got lunch together to commiserate, and he apologized, and I made sure I hadn’t given him a concussion, and—well…” She smiles at Clint, the same warm smile that first made Bucky suspicious, all those months ago in the empty lot. “We haven’t actually murdered each other yet, so that’s something.”

“That’s something,” Bucky agrees. Almost unconsciously, his gaze wanders to Steve, comatose on the couch. He feels a similar sort of smile on his own face and thinks of all the things he hasn’t yet said, all the things Steve might be keeping secret as well. He wonders with the seriousness of the very tired if love is just what Natasha said—not killing each other—and figures that even if that’s all there is to it, there are worse people to live long and happy lives with. “I think I’m off to bed,” he says as he hears his own thoughts, and stands up, fighting to keep from blushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony owns a Ford Mustang for anyone who's curious. Credit to my Dad's friend Jason knows more than I do about cars (a very low bar).
> 
> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for alcohol.

He wakes up the next morning completely disoriented by the darkness of the basement, but checks his phone to see that it’s past nine o’clock. Upstairs, there’s only Peggy, tapping away on a laptop at the kitchen table. “Morning,” she says, looking up at him and smiling. “If you’re hungry, there’s food in the fridge. And feel free to make yourself some coffee.”

Bucky turns on the stove and makes himself slightly messy one-handed eggs. He sits at the counter, looking out the window while he eats, and sees Clint gesticulating wildly to Angie. “Where’s everyone else?” he asks Peggy.

She’s immersed again in whatever’s on the screen. “Oh,” she says absently, “they’re about.”

“Are you working?” Bucky asks, leaning forward to frown at her. “I mean—sorry, I know it’s not really my business, but isn’t this supposed to be a vacation?”

Peggy gives a little laugh and looks up again. “Never fear,” she says, “I don’t plan to spend the entire weekend on the job. There are just a few loose ends to tie up.”

“Isn’t it Steve’s gallery, though?” Bucky asks, only to realize a second later that he’s only getting ruder with every word that comes out of his mouth.

Though she raises one eyebrow, Peggy doesn’t look offended so much as surprised. “I work two jobs,” she tells him.

Bucky pauses, and asks against his better judgment, “What’s the second one?”

“A top-secret government agency,” she replies with a completely straight face.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky laughs. “Nice one. You’d probably have me if it weren’t for the accent.”

She grins. “Goddammit.” After typing another line on the keyboard, she says, “I haven’t seen Tony or Pepper yet, and I’m pretty sure Natasha’s in the shower. Steve, though—I’ve no idea, sorry.”

So Bucky goes searching. Steve’s not in the house; that much is clear. He’s not out with Clint or Angie, either. Clint points him toward the trailhead at the edge of the woods because “well, he went that way a while ago.” And then, as Bucky’s walking towards it through the still-damp grass, he nearly steps on Steve lying spread-eagled on the ground. “Shit,” Bucky says, recovering from the surprise, “you okay?”

“Mm,” Steve hums, nodding with his eyes closed. “It’s warm.”

“And wet, I’d imagine. How long have you been lying there?”

“A while. I fell asleep.” Steve opens his eyes and squints up at Bucky. “You sleep okay?”

“Just fine,” Bucky says, “you? Pre-grass-nap, I mean?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve got the—”

“—the out-of-this-world couch, right.”

“Right.” Steve laughs and sticks one hand up over his body. “Help me up?”

Bucky pulls him to his feet and brushes blades of grass off the damp back of his shirt. “This doesn’t seem like much of a farm,” he says as they walk back hand in hand. “For one, there’s definitely nothing growing in this field.”

“I mean, it is _technically_ a farm,” Steve tells him. “Like, on the deed, it says ‘farmhouse.’ And Clint swears his aunt used to grow—uh, beets, I think?”

“How’d Clint get it, then, if it’s not in business anymore?”

“To tell you the truth,” Steve says, “I don’t have any idea. But no one cares enough to ask, usually—we’re all just grateful to have a getaway. And you don’t even have to pay per night.”

Bucky has to concede the truth of that. “And what do you guys usually do during these getaways?” he asks.

“The usual,” Steve says. “Get drunk out of our minds and wreak havoc on anyone unfortunate enough to drive by. Just kidding,” he continues quickly. “Like I said, it’s pretty relaxing. No fireworks, I think I mentioned that before. Sometimes we have picnics.”

“Picnics,” Bucky repeats, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s cool,” Bucky assures him. “Just not what I had in mind, considering.”

Steve looks at him sideways. “Considering what?”

“Well, uh—Tony. And Clint, to be honest. Although I guess maybe Tony’s a little more low-key than I give him credit for, seeing as he’s married.”

At that, Steve lets out a guffaw and squeezes Bucky’s hand. “God, you’ve got to get that line of thought out of your system. Two years ago Tony convinced the entire group to go skinny-dipping on the last night. He wanted to re-enact the whole William Tell apple thing, too, he was so drunk, but Pepper stopped him.”

“Does he have a bow and arrow?”

Steve snorts. “He did on that trip. Some fancy thing he has no use for, but goddamn it if he wasn’t gonna try, you know?”

“That—that sounds about right.”

They reach Clint and Angie again, and all four of them walk back into the house together, where Natasha’s eating yogurt while Tony braids Pepper’s hair.

“Do Barnes next,” Natasha suggests, and Tony gives a toothy grin.

Bucky pulls his hand from Steve’s to flip Natasha the bird.

“Guys can have braided hair, too,” Pepper informs him seriously. “Yours is long enough.”

“If I ever do anything with my hair, it’ll be a man-bun or nothing,” Bucky insists, and has to control his smile when Steve buries his laughter in Bucky’s shoulder.

Peggy shuts her laptop with a snap and looks around at them all. “Have we got any plans?” she asks of no one in particular.

“I don’t know,” Clint says, turning pointedly to Angie. “Do we?”

She sighs. “Horseshoes, anyone?”

“I have the equipment,” Clint says into the silence.

“Well, I’m game,” Natasha says, and Angie gives her a grateful thumbs-up. “As long as we can bring beer,” she adds.

Pepper raises her hand. “I second the motion.”

Somehow, the game of horseshoes takes up two whole hours, and that dissolves into sitting around talking, or in Peggy and Angie’s case, half-dozing in the bright sun. Eventually Natasha gets up to make herself a sandwich and is inundated by so many sudden requests that Bucky follows her into the house to help.

“You’re gonna help me prep?” she asks, opening the fridge and sounding slightly disbelieving as he pulls the door shut behind them. “You’ve got one arm.”

“I have two,” he informs her. “No one else is in here.”

“Suit yourself.” She hands him an onion. “But wash your hands first. I don’t want to eat your pocket lint.” As he’s searching for a cutting board, she says, “I had a dream last night.”

He’s so preoccupied, he barely notices the tone of her voice. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She hesitates. “It was about escaping.”

Bucky pauses in the act of slicing into the onion, then forces his knife down. “Just—just escaping, or was there—?”

“It’s never just escaping,” she says, and he can hear that her back’s to him. “They caught me.”

He doesn’t know how Natasha got out—it’s far too personal, even considering all the horrible things they’ve shared with each other, and she’s never asked him, either. He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say. “They didn’t,” he states eventually.

She snorts. “Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” After a second, she says, “I miss the city. It’s loud enough there that I don’t have time to—to think about it.”

“I know what you mean,” Bucky says, choosing not to point out that she has nightmares at home, too.

“Yeah. And just—the way it happened, you know, in real life, it barely makes any sense when I think about it now. Like it’s a dream, too. So it makes me wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“Well, only sometimes. But I wonder if—if it really happened.” She pauses, as if she has more to say, but her next words are, “Are you _crying?”_

“It’s this goddamn onion,” Bucky bursts out, mopping his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s all chopped, by the way.” He stumbles blindly over to the sink and turns on the faucet, pushing up his sleeve to deal with the onion scraps that have somehow wedged themselves into the metal plating of his left hand. As he washes it out, Bucky thinks about what Natasha just told him, the strange halting rhythm of her voice. He turns around, both hands still dripping. “What did you mean—” He stops.

Tony stands leaning on the counter, sneaking a slice of tomato from Natasha’s first pile, and he waves when Bucky looks at him. “Hey there, Agent K. No sandwiches for me or Pepper, actually, we forgot that we brought some leftover takeout.” He raises his eyebrows at the lengthening silence as Bucky’s thoughts whirl frantically, and then his gaze slides down to where both sleeves are pushed up to Bucky’s elbows, revealing on the right a perfectly normal forearm—and on the left, several inches of silver metal.

Bucky sucks in a breath, frozen like a deer in the headlights.

“Sweet arm,” Tony says, nodding at it.

Alerted to the situation, Natasha turns around from where she’s chopping lettuce, taking in the scene quickly and glancing at Bucky with worried eyes.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, hardly hearing himself. He finally remembers how to move and grabs a towel to dry his hands. Tony goes into the fridge and grabs what looks to be Chinese takeout without another glance at either of them, then strolls back out the sliding glass door.

Natasha’s still looking at him. “You okay?”

The arm’s dry now, but Bucky stays where he is, his fingers tracing the metal ridges. “Yeah,” he says, though he’s not quite sure. The surprise is starting to leave him, but the fear he’d expected doesn’t come—nor does the disgust. He clears his throat. “Do I really wear that much black?”

Natasha squints. “What?”

“He called me Agent K,” Bucky says. Strange, how his brain picked that out. Maybe because Tony left him with literally nothing else to think about, the whole thing was over so quickly. And isn’t that something?

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t because you go in for formal business-wear,” Natasha quips with half a smile.

Bucky slides the sleeve of his sweatshirt down and looks at his jeans. “You trying to tell me I look bad?”

She just laughs, and shakes her head, and turns away.

When they bring the sandwiches out, Tony says nothing, and no one looks at Bucky with anything out-of-place in their eyes. He tries to relax, to stop looking for signs that something’s about to go wrong—after all, he’s the only one who knows, really, the only one who was there for the truth of it. Natasha, he thinks, might have guessed a long time ago, but if it bothers her she’s never said anything, and that seems unlikelier than everything else combined. So it’s just him.

Throughout the afternoon Bucky wants to enjoy the sunshine and the laughter and the company. But it just won’t stick. He can’t get Tony’s face out of his head. Bucky doesn’t like anyone to look at the arm; he doesn’t like to look at it himself, and when he uses it, like he told Sam, he does his best to make it nothing more than a tool. But Tony saw it—and he didn’t say anything. It should be simple, it should be a relief. But instead Bucky is filled with a weird kind of horror, distant, distracting. After trying and failing to watch a few rounds of everyone else’s card game, he gets up and touches Steve’s shoulder. “I’m gonna go for a walk.”

“All right,” Steve says, shielding his eyes against the sun as he looks up at him. “You good?”

Bucky nods. “Just not my kind of game,” he says, and gestures towards the woods. “I’m gonna check out that trail, I think.”

Steve smiles. “Have fun.”

The trail, when he reaches it, takes him straight into the trees, which grow close together but not so thick that their branches block the sky. It’s nice to walk on the sun-dappled trail until the world grows smaller. Like the rooftop garden, it quiets his mind and lets him breathe more deeply.

And now he considers something he hadn’t thought of before, closer to the heart of whatever is eating at him. What was it that Sam said? Months ago, when they’d just started. When it felt like every part of him was metal all the way through. _You’ve been given a lot of things you didn’t ask for._ He hadn’t been talking about the arm, but it’s true, isn’t it? Bucky brushes the fingers of his hand against the rough trunk of a tree as he walks by. What is he supposed to do with this?

He’s distracted when the trees open up to reveal a pond in a small clearing. The path continues on, but Bucky stops. The water’s not too muddy, and when Bucky dips a foot in, it’s warm. He takes his shoes off and sits on the shore, and then he leans back and closes his eyes. It’s peaceful there with the birdsong and light breeze. It doesn’t stop his thoughts from going in circles, but they go slower now.

He opens his eyes some time later when he hears footsteps on the path. When he sits up and twists around, Steve is emerging out of the woods. He gives a tiny start when he sees Bucky. “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” Bucky says, “just thinking.”

Steve sits on the thin grass beside him. Bucky’s left side. “What about?”

Bucky chews on his lip, thinking. How the hell can he explain it? And he wants to—doesn’t want to hide it, at the same time as he wants to lie, as if by pretending he’s normal, he will be. “Tony—gave me kind of a surprise, earlier,” he says. Immediately, he regrets how accusatory that sounds. “It’s fine, I mean, he didn’t do anything. I was helping Natasha make the sandwiches, and I didn’t expect anyone else to be in there, I guess the water was too loud for me to hear him come in.” Bucky knows that he’s babbling and forces himself to stop. “And he just kind of walked in on me. With my sleeves rolled up.” He gestures to his left arm with his right.

Steve looks at him, serious, but doesn’t say anything.

Uncertain, Bucky shrugs. “It threw me off,” he says. “It was—I didn’t know how to react. So I’ve been kind of dealing with that.” He glances away from Steve and then back again, and he sees something there—curiosity. Well-hidden behind an equal amount of compassion, but it’s there. Bucky finds suddenly that what he wants isn’t just to explain—it’s to see what will happen. To see what’s underneath the curiosity. If he’s right in trusting, in wondering what he’s wondered for the past few hours. “Here,” he says, the word half a sigh, and rolls back the left sleeve of his sweatshirt.

He watches Steve’s face as he looks at the arm, sees his eyes travel over the metal, which gleams in the sunlight. His expression is still curious, but there’s nothing else, really. Just like with Tony. He looks up at Bucky. “Do you mind if I—can I touch it?”

Bucky would never have expected him to say that in a million years, but now that he has, it makes sense. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice barely escapes cracking.

He’s looking down, now, as Steve reaches out. He wants to flinch away when Steve’s hand touches the arm—is terrified that Steve himself will flinch. But of course Steve doesn’t—his fingers trace the plates, and it looks as if he’s trying to be gentle, feather-light. “Can you feel anything?” Steve asks.

“Only some pressure.”

Steve gestures to his own shoulder. “And does it go—?”

“All the way up? Yeah.” But Bucky’s not about to take his shirt off to show him. He turns his hand palm up because he can tell Steve wants to see it, and wiggles his fingers. He’s rewarded by a huff of laughter and half of a smile.

“That’s—I mean, wow,” Steve says, still gazing at the arm. “It doesn’t move like a prosthetic. I didn’t even know there was technology like this—it’s amazing. You’re really lucky.”

A dark, sick feeling coils in Bucky’s gut, at odds with the beautiful day. “I know,” he says.

Steve looks up. “What is it?” he asks. “I didn’t mean—did I say something?”

Bucky shrugs. “You didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“You remember I—I said a long time ago, I’m a veteran.” Steve nods, and Bucky kicks himself; as if Steve would forget. “Not just that, though. I’m—I was—I guess you’d call it a—a prisoner of war.” And why the hell is it so difficult to say, Bucky asks himself, why does it hurt? No, _hurt_ isn’t right—but it feels strange, like he’s looking at his body from the outside, seeing what a mess he’s made of himself. “I lost my arm. And, uh, the people who had me, they gave me this.”

He won’t look at Steve; he can’t do it. He looks down instead, staring at Steve’s hand frozen pale against the silver. “I didn’t know this kind of technology existed either, until they stuck it on my shoulder. It’s—they said it was experimental.” He remembers the snap of the clipboard, the insistent scratch of that goddamn pen, his own whimpering trapped in his throat, and swallows.

Steve follows one of the ridges in Bucky’s wrist with the tip of his index finger. “I’m sorry I said you were lucky. I didn’t realize—what it meant. And I’m really sorry that happened to you,” he says softly. Then he reaches farther and holds Bucky’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and though Bucky can’t feel his grip, his throat grows tight. “I don’t know what else to say,” Steve admits after a moment.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky says when he can manage it. “Although, in the spirit of fairness… I feel like I should tell you that, um, the whole thing has me a little fucked up. In case you couldn’t tell.” He’s back to staring at the ground now. Of course Steve can tell—everyone can.

But Steve doesn’t let go of his hand. “When did you get back?” he asks.

Bucky doesn’t even have to reach for the number. “Fifteen months ago,” he says. He knows it to the day. “But I don’t count the first two months after I got out. I, well, I wasn’t very good company. Maybe I’m still not.” He waves a hand so Steve knows he doesn’t mean it, although he kind of does. “Anyways, I guess that’s what happens after half a year trapped in a—” He stops, half-involuntarily, and sucks in a breath to keep himself from saying something that really will scare Steve off.

Keeping his silence doesn’t stop it from being a comfort when Steve kisses his own fingers and presses them to Bucky’s cheek. They’re leaning close enough already that it doesn’t startle Bucky at all. “It’s okay,” Steve tells him, “you don’t need to say anything else if you don’t want to.” After a second he adds, “And I think we can leave that whole ‘fairness’ thing behind us, don’t you? We’re not making a business deal here.”

“We’re not?” Bucky jokes, then sighs and pulls his arm back, smiling at Steve to take away any sting. “Thanks.”

They sit for a while, not saying anything. The sun slips a little lower, getting on toward evening by the time Bucky pulls his socks and shoes back on. As he’s watching Bucky tie the laces, Steve says, “This is the place I was talking about, you know. Where everyone went skinny-dipping two years ago.”

“Jesus.” Bucky gives the pond a dubious glance while he rolls his left sleeve down again. “I wish I hadn’t stuck my feet in it.”

“It’s not contaminated anymore,” Steve assures him. “Probably.”

It’s around midnight by the time they all go to bed that night, after a dinner of homemade pizza and a succession of very bad movies. Steve, as usual, is out hours before the rest of them—so Bucky is surprised when he knocks on the basement door just as he’s about to get into bed. “Buck?” he calls through the door.

“Didn’t think you’d be up again until the morning,” Bucky says, opening it.

Steve gives him a sleepy shrug. “It is morning, technically.” His hair’s sticking up on one side from the arm of the couch, and it’s maddeningly sweet. “But I just wanted to say—thanks, I guess. For telling me, uh, what you told me today.” His eyes search Bucky’s face. “I hope you didn’t feel pressured or anything.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly, “of course not.”

Steve smiles at that. “Good. But I’m glad you felt like you could tell me, anyway.”

“Sure thing.”

“Do you—” Steve stops, and it looks like he’s searching for the words. “Are you having a good time? I feel like it might be hard, I mean, we’re all friends already and there’s a little more drinking than I realized—”

Bucky catches the worried hand that Steve’s gesticulating with. “It’s okay,” he says. “There aren’t any fireworks, it’s fucking great.”

“I don’t want that to be the only reason,” Steve says.

“It’s not,” Bucky assures him. “I didn’t mean it like that. I love it here.” And he does, despite how strange the afternoon was. “I mean it.”

“Okay.” But Steve still can’t let it go. “Is there anything I can do, though?”

Bucky nods seriously. “You can stop worrying.”

Steve laughs and rolls his eyes. “Okay. Okay, really, fine.” He looks down at the hand that Bucky’s still holding, then up at his face. “I’m—I’m really glad you like it.”

“One thing is a little weird,” Bucky says. “Just, you know, how everyone’s in a relationship with each other. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.”

“I never thought about it like that,” Steve admits with a crease between his brows. “I guess it just happened so gradually—but now that you mention it, it is a little strange.”

“I don’t mind or anything,” Bucky says. He comes a little closer to Steve, though there wasn’t much space between them to begin with. “Especially, well, given the present circumstances.”

“What a relief,” Steve says, smiling again soft and shy and only for him. “Can I kiss you?” he asks suddenly, but so quietly that it feels like a dream.

“All right,” Bucky allows, and bends down to meet him. It’s still new, the desire and the possibility, and much like their first kiss, it’s gentle in a way that’s hard to describe. Not that Bucky is thinking very hard about it in the moment. Their bodies are pressed together, and when Steve deepens the kiss his hand slides down from Bucky’s shoulder to his wrist, tugs his metal hand from his pocket, and twines their fingers together as he did earlier by the pond.

“Is that okay?” Steve murmurs when Bucky stiffens with surprise.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes back, because by some miracle it is.

He tries hard to remember that as he’s dressing the next morning, but it still takes all of his courage to walk up the stairs and out into the main room. It’s past ten o’clock, but there’s only Steve, sitting with his feet up on the couch and a notepad on his knees. “Morning,” he says, looking up as Bucky opens the door, a smile spreading across his face almost automatically. And then his gaze catches on the hand, so fast it’s like a magnet, and though he moves on quickly, Bucky doesn’t miss the two seconds when his eyes are frozen on the metal.

He tells himself it’s to be expected. “Morning,” he says back, a little too late, and sits on the couch at Steve’s feet. “Where is everyone?”

There’s enough sympathy on Steve’s face that Bucky knows he understands the real question. “Mostly still sleeping, I think. It was a pretty late night.”

Bucky nods. He knows it’s just in his head, but even a few heartbeats of silence are unbearable. “What are you drawing?” he asks.

Steve gives him a mischievous grin, the sort Bucky has grown intimately familiar with. “You can see it later,” he says. “I’ll show you, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Steve bites his lip in exaggerated worry, and Bucky laughs. “Hope it’s not embarrassing.”

“Only a little. You know what would be really embarrassing, though—” He shuts the notebook and sets it aside so he can lean forward over his own knees. “Can I draw you sometime?”

The question throws Bucky. “Is it gonna be embarrassing?”

Steve laughs. “No, I got ahead of myself. Besides, it’s really only embarrassing for me.”

“How are you getting that?”

“I don’t know, it’s—” Steve gestures vaguely in the air and laughs again. “If I draw you, it’s like—it’s personal. It means something.”

“Huh.” Bucky looks at him sideways. “Can’t see why you’d want to, then. If it’s embarrassing.” He doesn’t see why Steve would want to draw him at all, personal or not.

“Can’t you?” Steve asks, resting his chin on his knees and blinking at Bucky with his hair falling in his eyes.

Bucky brushes it back, careful to use his right hand, and stays silent. He can’t figure out what Steve’s thinking and is afraid to guess. Still, the way Steve’s looking at him makes him blush, and he glances down, smiling.

“I am entering the kitchen,” says a loud voice, and footsteps sound on the stairs. “Please put your clothes back on.” Tony appears around the corner and walks to the pantry. He pulls out a bag of coffee grounds and straightens up, grinning at them. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“If we were going to be indecent, we wouldn’t do it on the couch,” Steve says. “That’s blasphemous.”

“At least you’ve got your priorities right.” Tony scoops the grounds into a filter. “Plus I don’t know how well the couch would hold up under steel-powered torque.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Bucky and turns around, busying himself with the coffee maker.

Steve looks to Bucky with a dubious expression. “You want me to talk to him?” he whispers.

“Nah,” Bucky whispers back, “it’s just Tony.” He isn’t sure why that should make anything better, but it does—maybe because Tony takes absolutely nothing seriously. If he were to do something appropriate to the gravity of the situation, whatever that might be, Bucky thinks the planets might fall out of alignment. “Although,” he adds, “it’s not made of steel.”

“What is it?” Steve asks.

“Titanium alloy,” Bucky tells him. It’s strange, seeing Steve take in the information, which is to say seeing him have no reaction at all—and why should he? It’s not as if it means anything to him.

Steve swings his legs around so he’s sitting normally on the couch. “At least we have proof that Tony doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does.”

As if he can hear their words, Tony says without turning, “I wish you’d save the whispering of sweet nothings for when I’m not around.”

It’s so ridiculous, so childish, so not funny, that Bucky starts laughing anyways. A second passes, and then Steve does too, leaning into him. “I’m gonna go shower,” Steve says, still chuckling, and gets up. “Just ignore him.”

And then Bucky’s alone with Tony for what must be the first time in months. He wonders what Tony thinks about the arm, if he really thinks it’s “sweet” like he said yesterday, if he’s even thinking about it at all. Knowing Tony—which Bucky supposes he doesn’t, really—he’s thinking up a million stupid one-liners about it at this very moment. Bucky opens his mouth to say something, he doesn’t know what, maybe to let him know about the titanium alloy. Then Natasha shambles in from the yard and collapses next to him on the couch, still half-asleep, and he shuts his mouth again.

A few moments pass before she gives a small start and nudges him with her elbow. He looks over, and she glances meaningfully at his left hand, gleaming conspicuously against his jeans. His stomach squirms at the attention, but Natasha is smiling, so he just shrugs. And that’s that.

Everyone else trickles in over the course of the morning, and after eating the omelets Angie insists on making, they chat aimlessly until Steve says he’d be up for something a little more exciting. So they traipse outside, Bucky slightly apprehensive.

But it turns out to be nothing more than an eight-way game of catch played with a frisbee. For a while Bucky does everything one-handed—but then he ducks out of the way, narrowly avoiding being beheaded, and flails wildly, inhibition overcome by instinct. He catches the disc by the fingertips of his left hand. He passes it on as quickly as he can, glancing around, but everyone is now watching Clint, whose reflexes weren’t so fast.

It’s a good game. He tells himself that, reminds himself that no one cares—he has ample evidence to prove it—no one gives a shit, no one is paying him or his metal arm any goddamn attention, Barnes, so just pay attention or you really will hurt yourself. But try as he might, like the previous afternoon, he remains distracted. And something anxious and bubbling gathers in the pit of his stomach.

“That’s it, I’m done,” Angie says at length, flopping down in the grass; almost everyone else follows suit gratefully—out in the sun, the game feels like more work than it actually is. Steve, for some reason, gives her a dirty look, which she returns good-naturedly. Then Steve actually turns his back and heads into the house. Confused, Bucky tries to decide if it’s a good or bad idea to follow him, but then Natasha scoots over to sit next to him.

“What?” he says. He can’t decipher the looks she’s giving him, and combined with everything else it just makes his head hurt.

“You know you don’t need to prove anything, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She inclines her head at his hand where it sits in the grass. He’s leaning back on the heels of his hands and only the wrist is really visible.

Somehow it just makes Bucky angry. “What? I’m just sitting.”

She’s not fooled. “Tell me you’re not constantly thinking about it.”

“You know I can’t,” he says, quietly, afraid someone else will hear, though as always the others are completely preoccupied.

“Then why don’t you just put your hand back in your pocket?” she asks. “Just for a while. Take a break.”

“Gotta get used to it somehow, don’t I?” He sits up straighter and pulls up a handful of grass, watching the blades fall through his silver fingers.

Her voice is more concerned than anything else when she responds. “You look like you’re going to hit something. Just take it slow, try again later.”

“I can handle it,” he insists, and he knows that he can, and he won’t hit anything. He’s fine. It’s fine.

“I mean—I know you can,” she says, faltering. “Is this… are you trying so hard because of Tony?”

“I don’t really give a shit about Tony,” he says, and it’s pretty true.

“Then—is it because of the thing Sam told you? With the surgery?”

He hears her doubt in every syllable. He wishes she’d stayed quiet. “Back off,” he tells her. It’s surprisingly hard to keep his voice calm. And then he’s afraid, and he gets up quickly in order to avoid whatever she might ask next. He follows Steve into the house.

Inside, Steve’s nowhere to be seen. Bucky goes into the bathroom and leans on the sink, feeling the heat in his face and the energy in his gut—but it’s not anger or fear or anything he really recognizes. It’s not panic, either; his heart isn’t racing, he can breathe just fine.

He holds up his arm, scrutinizes the metal from different angles as if by looking at it he’ll be able to figure out what’s wrong with it. But that’s stupid. He already knows the answer. And Natasha does too, or at least part of it; either that, or she’s very good at guessing. Either way, his cheeks burn. Maybe she’s right—not about all of it, just the part about taking a break. He doesn’t want to give up, though, and he promises himself as he puts his hand back in his pocket that it’s only temporary. He’ll try again.

Coming out of the bathroom, he feels marginally calmer. “You okay?” he asks, remembering how Steve left them outside.

He watches as Steve’s gaze slides down to his hand, just as before, and sees him open his mouth—but all he says is, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

For some reason, it both relieves and disappoints Bucky that he didn’t say anything about the arm, but he forces himself to move on. “What’s that?” he asks, seizing on the first detail he notices: the folder in Steve’s hand.

“Business,” Steve tells him.

“I thought the whole point of this was to avoid talking about work for the weekend?”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, giving a little shrug. “Since I’ve been kicked out of the frisbee game…”

Bucky frowns. “We all stopped—Angie just said she was done.”

“Yeah, but she meant it for me,” Steve insists sharply. Then he sighs and shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, “but I still don’t get it.”

With what seems like a fair amount of effort, Steve smiles. “They all do it. Getting me to take breaks, stopping things just when they’re—well, when they’re getting fun.” He shrugs. “I know they’re just trying to help. But it makes me feel like a little kid.”

“I don’t…” In the moment when he realizes it, Bucky sees in Steve’s rueful expression that _he_ knows that Bucky knows. “Because of your—”

“My health, yeah,” Steve says. “God, it makes me sound like some kind of ailing kid in a picture book. All that’s missing is a trip to the seaside.”

Bucky blinks, unprepared for the bitterness in Steve’s voice, unsure how to react.

“But it’s whatever,” Steve says, “honestly.”

“I mean,” Bucky says hesitantly, “it’s totally valid to—”

“Really, it’s okay,” Steve says.

It’s still a little harsh, but Steve obviously doesn’t mean it that way, so Bucky doesn’t take offense. He still feels bereft, though, as they walk outside, wrong-footed, as if the clouds have come in and made everything chilly, despite the oppressive midsummer heat. He looks to Natasha, but she avoids his eyes, and Steve isn’t speaking to anyone at all, flipping through the papers in the folder. Bucky wonders if he’s imagining most of the tension, or if everyone feels it—if there’s something more going on, if everyone has something to be upset about. He also wonders if he’s ruined the weekend, then tells himself to stop being melodramatic.

After a few minutes Clint, too, asks Steve what’s in the folder, and everyone gathers around in interest. He clears his throat, shuffles the papers, and announces that they’re going to have to clear out the gallery’s current exhibitions by next March. He grins at everyone’s looks of confusion, then reads off a long list of artists—all of whom have apparently rented space in the gallery for the art festival.

Bucky doesn’t really know what much of it means, but it’s not hard to work out that the gallery will be getting a lot of publicity—and a lot of money, if all the ecstatic whooping is anything to go by. His mood doesn’t flip back, but it’s easier to smile when everyone else is, and then Pepper shouts for them all to be quiet. “What about you?” she asks Steve. “What are you gonna put out for it?”

“What?” Steve demands, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t it enough that I’m offering up my own property?”

“I asked him the same thing before,” Bucky says, remembering the napkin sketch from their first date at the café. “He’s playing this one real close to his chest.”

“Yeah, but he’s doing something,” Tony says.

Steve shakes his head. “There is such a thing as privacy, you know.” But he doesn’t really seem bothered at all, just a little self-conscious. “I do have an idea,” he admits to general applause. “Why are you so guys so surprised?”

“We just didn’t think you’d own up to it,” Peggy tells him, patting him on the arm.

“Well, glad I can count on you guys to pressure me into it.” Steve shrugs. “I don’t really know what it is yet. But it’ll be… uh, it’ll be something.” His gaze flits to Bucky and away.

Clint smiles. “It always is.”

Blushing slightly, Steve says, “One of these days I’m gonna prove you wrong.”

Bucky realizes that Natasha is hanging back, smiling with everyone else but looking a little out-of-place, just as Bucky feels. Not that he feels excluded, but there’s history here between them, something shared, something he hasn’t lived enough of yet to be part of. He catches her eye but can’t tell if she’s still upset with him or not. Or for that matter if she was upset with him to begin with—his own anger colored everything before, and now he doesn’t know what to think.

They split up after a few minutes, as the shadows are lengthening and they’re all anxious to make the most of their last evening away from the city. “We’re having a picnic,” Steve informs Bucky, “since it’s a holiday and all.” He motions so vaguely that Bucky isn’t sure who’s included in the “we.” He figures it’s not Clint or Natasha, though, as they’re heading into the house, and he gathers from snatches of their conversation that they’re planning on repeating the tradition of skinny-dipping in the pond.

“I honestly almost forgot that today’s the Fourth,” Bucky says as they gather food from the kitchen.

Steve opens a drawer to get silverware. “Nice.”

“You didn’t?”

“Well, it’s, uh, my birthday, so—no.”

Bucky stares at him. He wants to accuse Steve of keeping things from him, but all that comes out is, “So this is a birthday picnic.”

“No,” Steve says quickly, “nope! It’s a nice time with friends.”

“This whole weekend is a birthday thing,” Bucky says, only now realizing.

Steve shakes his head. “It’s for everyone,” he insists. “The holiday just—you know, it’s too much, kind of ridiculous already. And I don’t do birthdays anyway. But here I can relax and so can everyone else, it’s so quiet, so removed.”

“That’s what I’ve always loved about it, yeah.”

“Have you come out here before?” Steve asks, looking surprised.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “I used to be in the area a lot when I was a kid, visiting my aunt. And I lived with my sister for a few months—right after I got back. Two towns over.”

“Wow,” Steve says, “why didn’t you say?”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t know.” _He wouldn’t want to know,_ he tells himself, almost believing it. “I don’t really talk to my sister much anymore, I guess.”

Steve nods, and Bucky can tell he feels awkward—they both do. It’s possible his lie was a little more transparent than he thought. But Steve doesn’t comment, just says, “It’s a good getaway. And the neighbors are far enough out that we shouldn’t hear any fireworks tonight.”

“Cool.” It’s strange to remember that fireworks were his biggest problem when they left the city; so much has happened since then. And yet despite the turmoil of the last forty-five minutes, it’s not exactly a bad feeling.

They gather up all the food and walk out onto the lawn, where Peggy is spreading a blanket in the grass. Angie greets them as they walk up and takes the bag of potato chips from Bucky. “Do we have plates?”

“I’ve got ‘em.” Steve hands them over, juggling the unwieldy box with the bread and cheeses.

“Let me take that,” Bucky offers automatically. He realizes only now that Steve has deliberately taken the majority of the picnic stuff—leaving Bucky with only the chips—now not even those, thanks to Angie—and a bag of grapes, so that he only has to use one hand.

“No, no,” Steve says, flashing him a smile, and he sets the box down.

Bucky busies himself with organizing the box, trying not to feel too absurdly awkward about it all. He’s grateful, and he wants to show it, but he also doesn’t want to make any kind of fuss after Steve has just been so discreet. So he passes out the silverware once they’re all sitting down, then looks around and notices—“Where are Pepper and Tony?”

“Tony’s taking her for a very fast ride in that machine of his,” Peggy says.

Angie shakes her head. “I’m so jealous.”

“What,” Steve says, “you want to be in a car with Tony?”

“She wants to be a movie star,” Peggy sighs.

“But Steve’s right,” Angie says, “with Tony I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. And he wouldn’t let me drive.”

Peggy snorts. “Neither would I, if you were with me. The road’s not a rollercoaster. You take the turns too fast.”

“And you love it,” Angie insists.

“Unfortunately.” Peggy fails to look particularly exasperated, however, and hands them all juice boxes.

It seems like it should take some getting used to, being in such a small group after a whole weekend with the entire crew, but after only about ten minutes Bucky stops worrying about scrutiny and just enjoys himself. He’s surprised, too, that Steve is so unbothered by the fact that his ex-girlfriend is practically in someone else’s lap—he figures that’s got to sting. But it really must have been a long time ago, because Steve doesn’t bat an eye. And it makes it easier to hold Steve’s hand, to let their legs touch on the blanket.

“So we’ve almost fixed a date,” Peggy says as if she can read Bucky’s mind, opening the bag of chips with a sound of crinkling plastic. “Sometime in March, perhaps.”

“My favorite month,” Steve says.

“You say that about everything related to the wedding,” Angie complains.

Steve grins. “You’re my best girls, how could it not be amazing?”

“Anyways,” Peggy interjects, “we’re thinking early March or even February. When the snow’s just starting to melt.”

“Seems a little unconventional,” Bucky says. “Won’t it get the dresses all muddy?”

“You’re assuming we’re wearing dresses,” Peggy says coolly, then softens when Bucky freezes with his mouth half-open in apology. “You’re half-right, though. Angie is.”

“And it won’t get muddy. I’m not wearing anything that touches the ground.” Angie grimaces. “I’d trip on it.”

“That’s true,” Steve says, chuckling. “Tell him how the proposal went.”

“Ugh.” Angie buries her face in Peggy’s shoulder.

Peggy laughs and hugs her with one arm. “You did beautifully, darling. I said yes, didn’t I?”

It makes Bucky smile, seeing them like this, so obviously in love. In the past months he’s mostly seen Peggy be clipped and professional; if Steve didn’t like her so much—no, the way he’s looking at her, there’s no doubt about it: he loves her too—Bucky wouldn’t really have thought she knew how to have fun. He also wouldn’t have thought Angie of all people would bring out that side of her.

The talk turns to nothing in particular, and the sun sinks a little bit lower. “You know, I’m glad Steve’s got you,” Angie says at length while she spreads brie on a cracker.

It’s such a non sequitur that Bucky doesn’t immediately realize what she’s said. “Hmm?”

“You’re good for him.” Steve gives a dramatic sigh. “He’s good for you,” she says to him.

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate you,” Steve says, turning to Bucky, “but I kind of feel like I can handle myself, you know, and—”

“That’s my point!” Angie says enthusiastically, her mouth full of cracker. “It’s always good to have someone who can hold you back. Keep you in check a little. Not you specifically, I mean, just people in general.”

“For my part,” Bucky interrupts, remembering Steve’s frustration earlier, “I don’t think I’m keeping him in check too much. I think I’m just kind of existing here.”

“Come on, you’re doing more than that,” Steve protests as Angie frowns.

“Yeah,” Bucky allows, “I guess I do hang around the gallery all day, distract you from getting any work done…”

“He does kind of do that,” Angie agrees, shrugging at Steve.

“Well, I like it,” Steve declares, seizing Bucky’s hand again. “And it’s my gallery, so it’s okay. Hey,” he adds suddenly, “it’s okay for you to be here, right? Jesus, I didn’t even ask. You’re good with taking work off yesterday, right?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s totally fine.” To Peggy and Angie, Bucky explains, “I work at a community center—kind of a gardener-groundskeeper mix, I guess. The hours are pretty variable around the holidays.” He looks back over at Steve. “But no, my boss didn’t even bat an eye. Probably helps that I asked for the Friday off way back when you first invited me.”

“Really?”

Bucky doesn’t mention the fact that, if it really had been a problem, he obviously wouldn’t be here right now. He just nods, because he’s amazed how good it makes him feel that Steve is smiling at him like that, and because he can hear in Steve’s voice how pleased he is.

“Told you he liked you,” Angie whispers to Steve, in such a carrying whisper that Bucky guesses she wants him to hear. Then she confirms it by winking at him across the blanket.

The sun is all but set now, so it’s hard to tell, but Bucky is fairly sure that Steve is blushing.

“Well, I don’t think it’s really mutual,” Bucky says. All three of them turn to look at him. “I mean, who’s the one sleeping on the supposedly-magical couch?”

It’s not really that funny—Bucky knows he probably shouldn’t even have said anything, because he has a sneaking suspicion that Steve is on the couch for several reasons that are more serious than comfort—but Steve cracks up. And then he says, “Buddy. Oh my god. Take the damn couch tonight if it matters so much. You’ll see.”

Then they’re all laughing, and Bucky lets them know that the couch had better be a Sleep Number after all they’ve hyped it up, and they sing “Happy Birthday” to Steve, and Angie feeds Peggy grapes one by one, and Steve lies on his back with his arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the deep faded-denim blue of the evening sky. After a while, once they’ve quieted down and the grass has come alive with fireflies blinking lazily here and there, Bucky realizes that Steve is asleep.

Peggy notices too. “He shouldn’t stay out too long,” she says quietly.

“Why not?”

“If it gets too cold, he’ll be exhausted tomorrow,” she says. “Or worse than exhausted. I’ve seen it before.”

Bucky thinks back again to what Steve said about feeling coddled. Looking at Peggy, listening to her voice, he can tell that she loves Steve just as much as he loves her. And he can even see that she’s worried, in the rigidity of her shoulders, the set of her mouth, tenser than usual. “If he gets cold, he’ll go inside,” he says. He hopes he sounds reassuring rather than reproachful.

Peggy purses her lips. “Ideally. But Steve’s not the most sensible when it comes to his own health.”

“Are any of us?” Bucky asks, trying not to sound too morbid. Then he adds, because it’s the truth, “The night’s pretty warm, anyway.”

She sighs, smiles a little. He can see her make an effort to loosen up. She turns away from Steve, her eyes finding Angie, who is searching in the darkness for her shoes. They don’t say anything more about it. And when Angie comes back, the two of them wander back towards the house hand in hand without a word.

Bucky lies down on the blanket beside Steve, mirroring his pose, strangely at peace despite what seems to have been a day full of tiny conflicts. It’s just the two of them, and Steve’s asleep anyhow, so he cushions his head on his metal arm, too, and it’s not uncomfortable. The fingers of his right hand wander over the metal plating, tracing the grooves. His mind wanders away from that, though, as he’s gazing up at the sky. It’s no longer blue, but black and deep, and strewn with stars. So many that they seem to press on the limits of his vision, so wide that he struggles to take it all in.

Steve stirs next to him. “What time is it?”

Bucky pulls out his phone. “Uh—about nine.” He switches off the screen, the better to see the stars. “You ready to go inside, birthday boy?”

“Not yet,” Steve says, scooting closer until he’s nestled against Bucky’s side. “It’s so nice out.”

He sounds so sleepy and content that Bucky can’t help but grin. “It’s even nicer if you look up,” he says, glancing over.

Steve blinks and turns his face upward. The starlight paints his face with a soft glow, and they’re close enough that Bucky can see the curve of his eyelashes, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, the slight tug on the corner of his mouth as he looks and looks, captivated.

“I love you,” Bucky tells him, unable to say anything else.

After a moment, Steve turns his gaze from the sky and meets Bucky’s eyes. “I feel like we’re the only two people in the world,” he says. In those words, Bucky hears everything echoed back and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning in this chapter for vomiting and alcohol.

The next day they clean the house and drive back down the bumpy gravel road and the smell of the city hits Bucky like a memory he’d almost forgotten, but he doesn’t even mind, because Steve kisses him on the cheek in front of his and Natasha’s apartment building and waves as Tony drives off again. Natasha convinces him to eat at the diner down the street because neither of them feel like cooking. On Tuesday afternoon he visits Steve, and uses both hands to hammer a nail into the wall of a back room in the gallery.

It’s Wednesday that the nightmares start.

By the time he goes to see Sam the next Friday, he hardly remembers what it’s like to sleep the night through. He figures he looks like hell, too, though no one’s said anything yet. He’s not sure if Natasha’s noticed at all, since she spends about every fourth night at Clint’s, and if he’s honest with himself he prefers it that way.

But as usual, with Sam sitting across from him, it’s hard to lie. Bucky finds he simply doesn’t have the energy. “It’s been a rough two weeks,” he says, then remembers that it’s actually been about a month since they last met. “Well—a rough week and a half. It was okay before then. Actually, it was really good.” Sam’s silent, so Bucky keeps going. “I got together with a bunch of other people for the Fourth, like you suggested. We left the city, went to this place in Connecticut, owned by a friend of a friend—” And then he stops, surprised at himself. “Well. Owned by a friend of this guy I’m seeing.”

Sam clicks his pen shut. “Seeing, as in, romantically?”

“Yeah. For a little while now.” The next thought that occurs to Bucky makes him snort, and before he can stop himself he says, “It’s kind of your fault.”

For once, Sam’s poker face cracks, and he smiles. “What do you mean?”

“He owns the art gallery I went to see back in March. For your assignment about, uh, connecting to my emotions.”

“I see.” Sam shakes his head slightly, as if in disbelief. “You’ve mentioned him before, haven’t you?”

“Now and then, yeah, probably.” Bucky waits for Sam to say something else or ask another question, but apparently he’s done having a normal conversation. Bucky figures he’s supposed to keep talking now, but he doesn’t know what he wants to say. “It’s—it’s really—I like him a lot. Over that weekend we got closer, I guess, even though there were like six other people around. I—I told him about my arm. Showed it to him.” He looks down, somewhat ruefully, at where his arm is hidden beneath his long sleeves, the hand in his pocket. “I played frisbee with it for a little bit.”

“And how was that?”

“It was fine. I’ve got cat-like reflexes.” The joke falls completely flat. “I mean, I don’t know, it was okay. No one made a big deal out of it.” Bucky thinks briefly of Tony’s remark about “steel-powered torque” but decides he doesn’t want to explain the whole thing to Sam. And that’s not what’s bothering him, anyways. “Really, they were all cool about it. But—I guess I got uncomfortable after a while. And I argued with Natasha about it. And—and now I’m having nightmares.”

“About your arm?” Sam asks, pen at the ready.

Bucky averts his eyes. “I don’t even know. I can’t remember them when I wake up. But it’s like every three or four hours, at least, so—so that’s been fun.”

“How do you feel afterwards?” Sam asks. “When you wake up.”

It’s the last thing he wants to think about, but he can’t say it’s unexpected. And he brought it up in the first place. Bucky forces himself to think back beyond the haze of tiredness that’s become his more or less constant companion, to this morning, around one o’clock, when he flailed himself into consciousness. “Uh,” he says, “terrified, I guess?”

“Just terrified?”

Bucky nods.

Sam makes a note. “Okay. Was there any association with the fear?”

“I don’t—what?”

“There can be subtle differences in the emotions we have,” Sam says, “depending on what they’re connected to. You might feel a—a different kind of comfort in your grandmother’s house, say, than you do with your best friend.”

“And you want to know if I felt scared in some specific way?” Bucky sighs, tries to remember, closes his eyes even. But all he can come up with is fear, gaping and empty, the same as always. “I don’t know.”

But Sam’s not done yet. “What about smell?” he asks. “Scents can often be—”

“A trigger for memory, yeah,” Bucky says, “didn’t we talk about that at one point?” And then he realizes what Sam’s probably thinking of and shakes his head. “No,” he says, “there wasn’t any of the—I mean, no leather, no vinyl. I know what those smell like. They weren’t a part of it.”

“Any other smells?”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky says, but maybe because of all the questions, he’s suddenly not so sure. “It’s all kind of mixing together when I try to describe it,” he explains. “It’s like—this is sometimes more than one time in a night, and I’m already pretty exhausted—it’s not something I’m trying to remember.”

Sam nods. “I would like you to try, though,” he says, “at least until our next session. Is that okay with you?”

“I guess, but I can’t really promise anything.” He gestures vaguely at his own head. “It’s all still kind of Swiss cheese up here. But you know that.”

“We have ways to work around that, though, don’t we?” Sam reminds him. “Do you still have your notebook?”

Bucky thinks guiltily of all the blank pages, which are supposed to be full of notes about art and his arm and this whole “recovery” thing. “Uh—yes.”

“Could you put it by your bed?” Sam asks. “When you wake up, you can write down anything in your head—not just details about the dream, but what you’re feeling, anything at all. It doesn’t have to be a lot. And if you want we can talk about it at the next session, but if not, it still might make it easier for you to get back to sleep.”

Despite knowing the theory, Bucky has a hard time believing that, but he agrees to it anyways. It’s not as if he has any better ideas. Half an hour later, on his walk home, he starts to wonder if maybe he should’ve talked more about the arm—maybe asked for details about the surgery program. But even that notion makes him feel a little jittery again, vaguely uncomfortable and unable to pinpoint why—and then his phone buzzes.

 _You never gave me an answer before,_ reads the text from Steve. _Can I draw you?_

 _I still don’t get the appeal,_ Bucky types back one-handed, _but sure._

Steve sends him a grinning emoji.

_When though?_

A minute passes before Steve replies. _Do you have time today?_

It happens that Bucky does, so he winds up in the elevator of Steve’s apartment building fifteen minutes later, mild trepidation mounting. “Are you providing the robe?” Bucky asks when he opens the door.

Steve blushes immediately. “This isn’t fucking _Titanic,”_ he says, stepping aside to let Bucky in, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek after a questioning glance to make sure the contact is all right.

“Too bad,” Bucky says with much more confidence than he feels. He’s lost count of how many times he’s come here now, and the apartment looks just as it always has—there’s nothing that appears specifically set up for drawing. He’s slightly relieved. Even fully clothed, he doesn’t think he wants to recline seductively on the couch.

And then Steve starts setting up a collapsible easel in the small amount of empty space left between the kitchen and the rest of the room, dragging the furniture around a little bit to make more room. He brings a chair over to the window and plunks it down, then gestures for Bucky to sit. Bucky does. As if he knows how awkward he feels, Steve flashes him a quick smile, then vanishes, only to return with a big pad of paper and a selection of technical-looking graphite pencils. He sets the paper on the easel and stops, looks at Bucky, then crosses his arms. “That’s not gonna work.”

“What?” Bucky says. “You told me to sit here.”

“Can you, uh—try standing up,” Steve says.

Bucky leans on the wall beside the window with one suave hand behind his head. At least, he hopes it’s suave. “How’s this?”

Grinning, Steve says, “Hang on.” He grabs an apple from the kitchen and hands it to Bucky. “Hold this.”

“And do what with it?”

“Just hold it,” Steve says, as if it’s obvious. “Like—at your side. Well, maybe a little bit in front of you, yeah, like that.” Then he hesitates. “Actually, what if you used your other arm?” There’s a beat, and then he shakes his head. “You know what, you don’t need to, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I mean, I can do it,” Bucky says at once despite the sudden wrench of his gut.

“You don’t have to,” Steve insists. “It doesn’t matter, honest.” He finishes setting up his paper and gets his pencils in order on the corner of the kitchen table. Then he stares at Bucky for at least a minute and a half, and finally starts to draw.

Bucky hadn’t really imagined much past the awkwardness of being drawn in the first place, but he finds out quickly that it’s less awkward and more plain old boring. After what feels like an hour—but which is only twelve minutes by the clock in the kitchen—he says, “Have you ever been a model yourself?”

To his surprise, Steve looks faintly embarrassed. “For my entire art school career, actually.”

“Oh.” Bucky supposes that makes sense; so many aspiring artists in one place must make for pretty good business. “What was that like?”

“Not so bad,” Steve says, “at least after the first semester. We had to bring our own robes, though.”

It takes him a second to realize that Steve’s not joking. “You were a—I mean—I mean, it’s—whatever pays the bills, I guess.”

And now Steve looks amused, goddammit. He doesn’t look at Bucky, but leans closer to his paper as he says, “There are worse ways to earn money than pimping yourself out to a bunch of bored students.”

The phrasing gives Bucky pause, which seems to be what Steve intended. And then too much time passes for Bucky to respond even if he could think of something to say, and they’re silent again. Bucky looks out the window for a while, then sees that his dumb arts-and-crafts bouquet is still sitting on the sill in its coffee-bean pot. A month and a half, he realizes: that’s how long it’s been, which really isn’t long at all. And here he is modeling, going on work retreats—well, if he’s honest, he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.

He turns his gaze from the flowers and stares aimlessly around. Only five more minutes have passed. He doesn’t want to ask Steve how long it’ll take—“Why is your apartment painted the same color as the gallery?” he asks instead. Nice one, idiot, go after his interior design choices.

Steve does look away from his work now, too, frowning. “What, yellow?”

Bucky shrugs helplessly. “It looks like the same shade. And it’s—well, it is a little unusual. It’s so bright.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, nodding, “that was kind of the point. I mean, the apartment was already like this when I got it, and I’m not allowed to repaint it—but I liked it so much that I did the same for the gallery.”

“But why?”

“Isn’t it nice?” Steve doesn’t seem particularly concerned that Bucky won’t agree, just enthusiastic, as he always is, gesturing to the beams of sunlight passing through the window and hitting the opposite wall, creating a broad swath of gold.

Bucky considers. “If the sun’s shining, yeah.”

“If it’s not, then the color’s still pretty,” Steve argues. “It’s kinda like sunshine on its own.”

“I guess that’s kind of your thing, isn’t it?” Bucky says.

“What?”

“Bright colors. Happy stuff. Didn’t you say once that sunshine was the best thing ever or something?”

Steve shrugs. “Life’s tough shit,” he says. “I feel like it’s all dark enough without adding more on top of that.”

And Bucky doesn’t know just what to say to that. He also doesn’t know how to look away.

“What?” Steve asks again, looking back.

“I just—” Bucky shakes his head. “I’m so glad there are people like you in the world.”

Steve looks self-conscious again and picks up his pencil again. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t surround myself with happy thoughts.”

But it’s more than that, Bucky thinks as the afternoon slides on into endless minutes of soft light and the sound of Steve’s pencil on the paper. It’s not just wrapping yourself in nice, pretty things and deciding to be okay. If it were that simple, he’d have done it a long time ago and they probably wouldn’t be in this room together, because he wouldn’t ever have needed to go to the gallery and his head would be all right all the time, not just in the lucky moments.

He doesn’t know what it is that Steve has discovered that makes him able to survive, to be so happy. He supposes the yellow walls might help. But Bucky doesn’t ask for details, and Steve just moves his chair closer in order to do details and there’s a magnetic pull in his eyes, so Bucky stops thinking and enjoys the somewhat unbelievable fact that Steve is staring at him. Even if it’s only to draw. That hardly seems to matter anymore.

In the end, Steve turns the giant notebook around and shows him something that seems to be beautiful—hazy, full of thick lines that make him look bigger and stronger than he is, stark against the sunshine from the window, which Steve has somehow managed to illustrate despite using only black and white. The face doesn’t seem to bear much resemblance to his own, but there’s something about the set of the shoulders, the fingers clenched around the apple, that looks familiar. “It’s really good,” he tells Steve, because it’s true and because he gets the feeling that whatever Steve is up to has very little to do with making a picture-perfect likeness.

“I fucked it up a little bit,” Steve says, frowning at the paper, vaguely waving his hand at the area around Bucky’s feet. “I could do better.”

“No, it’s good,” Bucky says again.

Steve laughs. “That’s sweet,” he says, taking up Bucky’s right hand and kissing his knuckles. “But I don’t feel bad about it. It’s just not the best.”

Now thinking that he might have missed something, Bucky says, “Oh, sorry,” then laughs at himself, too.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Steve asks suddenly. And there’s really no choice.

Later, though, Bucky thinks very carefully before he kisses Steve when they’re sitting on the couch, and when Steve responds and both of them wind up horizontal, he knows he could choose to stop it. He wonders if he should—if he should sit up now and hold off in case it’s a mistake, in case he’s wrong and this is a disaster and he will do something horrible despite how badly he wants it, all of it. “You okay?” Steve murmurs against him, sensing his hesitation, and the question is all that Bucky needs to convince him that this, whatever it is, is safe.

 _Whatever it is_ turns out to be less than Bucky might have imagined, but if Steve is disappointed by the fact that Bucky never takes his shirt off, can only bring himself to use one hand, and is shaky and weak like a newborn baby, he is very good at pretending. So good that Bucky dismisses that fear before he can consider it for too long. He rests his head on Steve’s arm, the sheets tangled around their legs—he hardly remembers making it to the bed, and isn’t it funny that for once he doesn’t mind a little bit of a gap in his thoughts?—and Steve kisses the top of his head, and it feels like a miracle that he has been allowed to have this.

Even more miraculously, he doesn’t have any bad dreams that night, and wakes up next to Steve with an almost-forgotten sense of calm. As if to emphasize it, Bucky returns to his own apartment and writes the date in his notebook, the one where he’s supposed to be recording his triggers or his panic attacks or whatever, then scrawls _fucking nothing_ next to it.

—

It doesn’t stay that way, of course, but as July draws to an end Bucky stays as close to Steve as he can, like he’s a good luck charm, and he likes to think it mostly works. He doesn’t see Natasha at home much these days. She spends a lot of time with Clint, he assumes; every once in a while she shows up at the gallery, which Tony finds endlessly amusing, and at work they banter as they always have. She seems happy—seems satisfied, somehow, though she never says it. The sessions with the car fall by the wayside, and neither of them makes much of an effort to start them up again.

“We’ve been invited,” Steve says one evening in the second week of August, his back to Bucky as he makes tea, “to a wedding-planning dinner.”

Bucky lifts his head from the armrest of the couch, frowning. “What do they want my opinion for?”

Steve chuckles. “Well—they don’t. You weren’t invited. But I was, and I’m bringing you along.”

Letting his head fall back down, Bucky says, “Wow, way to make a guy feel welcome.” But he’s smiling, and he knows Steve can tell that he’s not actually put out. That he’s pleased, even, to be thought of, as if they were a package deal. “You don’t think they’ll mind?”

“Nah, they love you.” Steve comes out of the kitchen and sets his steaming mug on the coffee table. “And I’m sure you’ve got lots of good ideas in there somewhere.” He taps Bucky on the foot.

Bucky curls his knees up to his chest, then puts his feet back in Steve’s lap when he’s sitting down again. “I don’t know anything about planning a wedding.”

“Neither do I. Neither do they. That’s why we’re having this dinner, so that we can finally start puzzling things out.”

“When is it?”

The couch dips down and Bucky’s legs are lifted slightly as Steve digs his phone out of his pocket. “Just sometime this month, Peggy says. Whenever works for everyone. And whenever they get their apartment clean enough to have guests.”

“Well, I don’t have anything coming up.” Every once in a while, Sam will bring this up, too, in addition to everyone else—and Bucky supposes that maybe he really should be “integrated into society” by now, since he’s been back for over a year. But he still can’t quite figure it out. Anything outside his tiny circle of the gallery, the garden, his own apartment, and these gentle moments with Steve leaves him drained.

Steve’s scrolling through the calendar on his phone. “I’ll have to check the schedule at the gallery. I know there are a few things—this guy from Utah, and also I think maybe—shit, I can’t remember.” He grins. “Although I bet if I suggested a date to Peggy and it didn’t work, she’d tell me exactly what I had scheduled for that day. She’s better at my job than I am.”

Bucky laughs and hands him his tea, which is in an unfamiliar mug today, tall with sides that meet at right angles. It’s painted a blinding neon pink. “What if she vanishes when she gets married?” Bucky asks. “What’ll you do then?”

“Hire Pepper,” Steve says at once, “or sell the gallery.”

“You could promote Clint.”

“He’d fill the place up with cubism or something.” Steve holds the mug as if he’s cold, though the day is hot and the window is open, filling the apartment with the sounds of the city. “Anyways. Do you want to do something in the meantime? Something fun?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, dragging out the words. “Summer’s almost over. I don’t want to just see you here and at the gallery—let’s go somewhere! Do something! Enjoy the weather while we have it!”

“You wanna go to the beach?” Bucky suggests, wondering what the hell he’ll do if Steve says yes. It’s one thing to wear short sleeves when it’s just the two of them—though even that still makes him breathless with anxiety from time to time—but it’s something else entirely to do it out in the world, in the sun, to maybe even take his shirt off.

“Nah,” Steve says, patting Bucky’s feet again, but comfortingly this time. “Not that. I know you don’t like to—I mean, I know you don’t want to do that.” He looks suddenly flustered, but Bucky’s whole body is almost painfully warm, happy, light. “Uh, but maybe Coney Island? We can just ride the trolley, sit on the pier. It could be really nice.”

“Yeah, I could get behind that,” Bucky says. In this moment he thinks he’d agree to anything Steve says, but he really does like this idea. “When do you want to go?”

They decide on the Friday after next; Bucky will meet Steve at the bus station on West Brighton at four and they’ll go from there. Bucky leaves a note for Natasha, since she wasn’t home the night before, and heads out. It’s a long walk, but he doesn’t mind, and on some deserted side streets he even takes his left hand out of his pocket for a few yards at a time. The closer he gets to the waterfront, the more crowded it gets, and he stands just out of the way of the flow of people around the bus stop for fifteen minutes, watching in what he hopes is a casual, not-too-eager manner. He’s early—he learned his lesson a long time ago. The day is so nice, not as hot as usual, that he forgets to check the time for a while. When he does look again, at least three buses have come and gone. And Steve still isn’t here.

He waits for one more bus. Then he pulls out his phone to text Steve, and sees that he missed the notification for three messages. The first is from just before four.

_got hugn up_

And two minutes after that, one right after the other:

_cant come sorrry_

_love you_

Well, fuck, Bucky thinks, shoving his phone back into his pocket, not sure what to say in response. He wishes Steve had let him know earlier, but maybe he thought he’d be able to make it up until the last minute. He gazes over towards the Ferris wheel and roller coaster, visible over the buildings, and wonders if he should try to walk around a little anyways, just to make the trip worth it. Buy an ice cream. Enjoy the sun. But, he thinks wearily, he’ll have enough of that on the way back. And he might as well get started.

At the halfway point, bored of his own disappointment, Bucky starts to wonder why Steve couldn’t come—maybe something about the festival, maybe someone else couldn’t make their shift. He doesn’t want to let the evening be a complete waste, so he resolves to buy takeout when he gets closer, or at least something to drink, and surprise Steve.

But when he opens the door to the sound of the little bell, it’s Tony behind the desk. “For me? You shouldn’t have,” he says.

Bucky clutches the sandwich bags to his chest. “You don’t like tomatoes.”

“Oh, ew, you spoiled them.” Tony puts his feet up on the desk. “And here I thought you were here to keep me company in my abandonment.”

“I brought it to share with Steve,” Bucky tells him, not remotely guilty: he knows for a fact that half the food in the mini-fridge in the back belongs to Tony. “He said he got stuck at work.”

Tony gives him a dubious look. “He doesn’t even have a shift today. He said he was going to come in anyways to do something this morning, but he never showed.”

“He said he got hung up,” Bucky insists, confused.

“Well, he’s not here.” Tony spreads his hands. “Maybe a train broke down?”

“He took the bus,” Bucky says. “I mean, he said he was going to.” He sets the sandwiches down on the counter and looks at his phone again.

_got hugn up_

Whatever. “I don’t know,” Bucky announces. “I’m sure he’s got stuff to do.”

“I can text him if you want,” Tony offers. “Get his side of things.”

“Not behind his back,” Bucky protests, slightly appalled. “No, I’ll talk to him later. I can handle it. But thanks.”

Tony leans back in his chair with a half-smile that makes Bucky think he’s just passed a test. “Whatever krisps your Kreme, buddy.” And then, sounding uncharacteristically serious, he says, “Don’t take it personally. Steve doesn’t ditch people without good reason. And he likes you too much to do it even with a good reason, probably.” And he flashes a wide smile.

Bucky laughs and leaves with his sandwiches. But outside, he stops on the street corner, thinking. Tony’s right. And it’s not that Bucky thinks that highly of himself—it’s just that it’s true, Steve is a fundamentally dependable person, despite being something of a mess. It’s not like him to cancel so abruptly without a real explanation. At least, Bucky doesn’t think it’s like him—but he can’t actually remember if Steve’s ever canceled on him before. All the times when he simply wasn’t at the gallery, they had never had a meeting set up to begin with. Anyways, a lack of explanation isn’t any reason to be suspicious.

But. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more here. Something wrong. Something to do with the fact that Steve didn’t come in in the morning either, apparently. He’s probably making things up now, but Bucky doesn’t like the brevity of the texts, either. Or the typos. He scrolls up in their conversation and confirms it: a whole paragraph from three days ago about the horror of slightly sticky subway seats, written with perfect spelling and punctuation.

He figures there’s no harm in stopping by the apartment. He has sandwiches, after all. And it’s only five minutes from the gallery. Still planning on making it a surprise if he can, he catches the door behind someone else entering Steve’s apartment building and rides up to the seventh floor. He knocks on Steve’s door. There’s no answer; he knocks again. Still nothing.

He texts Steve. _Are you at home? I have food._

The answer comes after a minute and a half: _cant eat rifht now_

 _Can I come in at least?_ Bucky asks, now actually slightly concerned, his misgivings too strong to brush off. _Just to say hi?_

Another two minutes pass, and then— _doors unlocked_

So Bucky steps inside. The apartment is quiet, so quiet that he can hear the clock ticking on the wall above the statuette of the red woman. “Steve?” he calls, but he can already see that Steve must be either in the bathroom or the bedroom: it really is a tiny space. He puts his shoes on the mat, sets the sandwiches down on the counter, and squeezes over to the bedroom, pokes his head inside.

The curtains are drawn and the room is dark, but in the sliver of light from the door Bucky can see Steve lying on the bed, flat on his back, his eyes closed.

“Stevie? You okay?” Bucky asks. Without thinking about it, he’s almost whispering. He feels like he’s intruding.

“Mm-hm,” Steve says, not opening his eyes. “Close the door?”

Bucky does, then hesitates, not sure what to do, whether or not he should sit on the bed, confused, worried.

After a few seconds, Steve says, just as quietly as before, “I’m really okay. It’s just a migraine.”

“Oh. I—uh.” Bucky pauses again. He definitely feels awkward now, guilty, pretty sure he really is intruding. When he had migraines himself, in the first months after he got back, the last thing he wanted was company, people around him, talking, trying to do anything. “Do you—should I go?”

“No, it’s all right,” Steve says. He’s barely moving his lips, though Bucky knows from experience that just shutting up and not saying anything is the only thing that helps. And even that, only a little bit. “Unless you have something to do.”

“Not really,” Bucky says truthfully, though he doesn’t know how he can help at all. “What should I—um—do you need anything?”

Steve cracks an eyelid. “Just don’t talk.” But then he flips one hand palm-up, as clear an invitation as any.

It’s strange. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not what Bucky expected from the afternoon by any measure. But he sits down on the bed next to Steve, perching as lightly as he can, and takes his hand. It only takes about thirty seconds before he feels weird about that, so he takes a deep breath and lies down beside Steve. Both of them on top of the blankets, only their hands touching. They’ve been closer together in this bed, slept beside each other, done more than that—though not much more since that first time, and not often—but Bucky feels, somehow, as if this is an invasion, too close, too intimate. He doesn’t think Steve cares, though; looking over, he’s got his eyes closed again, his breathing light, as if he’s half-asleep or meditating.

Even in here, a door and a wall in between, Bucky can hear the ticking of the clock. He matches his breath to it and nearly dozes off. He glances over at Steve, guilty, but he’s not paying any attention; he hasn’t moved at all. Then Bucky really does fall asleep. When he wakes up, he can tell through the curtains that it’s dark outside. His phone—he angles the bright screen away from Steve—shows just after eleven o’clock.

Natasha’s texted him. _Are you gonna be home tonight?_

He pulls his hand out of Steve’s to text back. _Don’t think so._

He’s typing out an explanation for his late response when Steve stirs behind the phone. He can’t type with the metal hand, so he puts that one in Steve’s without thinking much about it. Then Steve makes a surprised noise and pulls on his arm. Bucky lets the phone drop. “What?” he whispers.

“Cold,” Steve sighs back, and tugs Bucky’s arm up so that the back of his hand is resting on Steve’s forehead. He still hasn’t opened his eyes.

It makes Bucky smile, even though he’s also a little unsettled. And now he has a problem, namely, how to keep lying here when Steve has got hold of his left arm. He ends up on his stomach, jostling the bed as little as possible, his face mashed into the pillow. He brushes the hair off of Steve’s forehead, watches him breathe. Hopes he’s all right. And he falls asleep again.

He wakes up again in what must be the very early morning, famished. Steve appears to have finally drifted off, so Bucky gingerly takes his hand back, trying not to wake him. He takes his phone from the floor beside the bed and eases the door shut behind him.

The sandwiches are still sitting on the counter, now room-temperature, but Bucky’s so hungry that he doesn’t even mind; he puts the second one in the fridge and leans against the counter to eat his. By night, the apartment looks different in a way that he likes: the moonlight traces the furniture in silhouette and makes it seem unknown.

He hears the door open in the hall and is still in the process of turning around when Steve vanishes into the bathroom, the door bouncing off the latch and swinging open again. The sound of vomiting reaches Bucky a moment later. He pushes off the counter and squeezes into the tiny room, nearly tripping over Steve’s feet. Carefully, he bends down, holding Steve’s shoulders steady as he heaves. “You done?” he asks when Steve sits back, his breathing ragged.

Steve nods and reaches out to flush the toilet, then slumps back against the wall. Bucky rubs his shoulder in what he hopes is a comforting manner, but Steve shrugs him off and shakes his head. After a moment he sags sideways so he’s lying on the floor, looking up at Bucky through the darkness. “Sorry,” he croaks. “Touching hurts.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky tells him, torn between wanting to help somehow and still being slightly grossed out, although that makes him feel a little guilty. He edges back out of the bathroom and fills a glass with water. When he returns, Steve is pressing his cheek against the cool linoleum floor. “I got you water if you want it,” he says softly, sitting down on the edge of the bathtub.

There’s a quiet noise that could be gratitude or a weak groan. Bucky waits, ready to drop the water if Steve’s sick again, but moments and then minutes pass with nothing. Bucky’s phone is on the counter and he doesn’t know what time it is anymore, unable to see any windows from this little corner of the apartment—but he finds that he doesn’t really care. It’s all right, if a bit boring, to sit here with Steve and make sure he’s all right. He wouldn’t want to leave him in any case. He wishes he could do—well, something.

Eventually—it could be one hour later or several—Steve whispers, “I think it’s getting better.”

“That’s good.”

“You can—” Steve coughs. “You can go if you want.”

Bucky holds the water out to him, supports him as best as he can when he pushes up onto one elbow to drink. “I think it’s like with drunk people,” he says. “What if you choke or something?”

Steve laughs and snorts into his water, which just makes him cough again. He downs the rest of the glass and sinks back to the floor. “Ugh.”

Privately thinking that this proves his point, but feeling that it would be mean to say so, Bucky rolls his shoulders, stiff from sitting still. “If you actually want me to go, I will,” he says, “but I don’t have a problem with staying.”

“What time is it?” Steve asks. “Do you have work?”

“I think it’s maybe three A.M., tops. And I do have—well, it’s later,” Bucky says, “but yeah, I will have to go into work…” He can tell, somehow, that Steve is about to say something stupid, and cuts him off as quietly as he can. “Look, I can’t walk home at this time of night without asking for trouble. And I can’t leave you lying on the floor, either.”

With a sigh, Steve says, “I’ll go back to bed, you can sleep on the couch if you want.”

“You’re sure?” Bucky says doubtfully. “You’re not gonna—?”

Steve claws his way into a sitting position. “Like I said, it’s getting better. And anyways—stomach’s empty. I haven’t eaten for maybe twelve hours.”

Bucky hums in sympathy and helps him get to his feet. It’s only about three yards to his bedroom, which basically the only advantage of such a small apartment, but it seems like Steve is already a little bit steadier. Still, he falls onto the bed and barely moves when Bucky pulls a blanket over him. He mumbles something unintelligible. Bucky refills the glass of water and sets it on the table by the bed, then bends down to kiss his forehead—and stops, remembering that touching hurts. He closes the door softly as he leaves.

Alone in the living room, Bucky realizes for the first time just how tired he is, despite what he said to Steve. He checks his phone and sees that it’s two-fifty. God. Uncertainly, he opens the hall closet and finds a pilly blanket on the top shelf. The couch is a little bit small, but he doesn’t blame Steve for wanting the bed to himself tonight. In any case, he’s too exhausted to be uncomfortable, and falls asleep in what feels like seconds.

He wakes up to sunlight glaring through his eyelids and a crick in his neck, and hears a strange, low guttering sound that he can’t identify. He opens his eyes and twists around, aching, to see Steve hunched over at the kitchen table wrapped in a blanket. On the stove behind him, the tea kettle is spouting steam. “Morning,” Steve says, looking over at him.

“Is it still?” Bucky asks, sitting up. He can’t tell how long he slept, but his mouth is desert-dry. He sees on his phone screen that it’s just past eleven. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

Steve shrugs. In the blanket, the movement is barely noticeable. “Headache’s gone,” he says, “but I really just want to sleep for a million years.”

“So why don’t you?” Bucky gets up, clutching his own blanket around his shoulders, too, and joins Steve at the table. As soon as he sits down the kettle starts whistling, and he gets back up to make the tea, waving at Steve to stay where he is.

“‘Cause I get dizzy after I lay down for too long,” Steve says. “My body wants to kill me, I swear. I probably won’t make it to thirty.”

Something in his voice—Bucky swerves with the tea kettle and narrowly avoids pouring boiling water all over the hand that’s holding the mug. As it is, a puddle starts spreading across the counter.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/143551898@N08/31759226358/in/dateposted-public/)

“Fuck,” Steve says, grabbing a towel off the oven handle and trying to sop up the mess. “I didn’t—goddammit, I’m sorry, Buck, I—”

“What are you saying?” Bucky demands, taking the towel from Steve and steering him back to his seat. “What do you mean, you won’t make it to thirty?” His innards have turned to ice, and he can’t feel the heat of the dripping towel in his hands.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” Steve says firmly. “It’s not true. I make—I make awful jokes, that was stupid of me. Don’t look like that, please.”

“That’s the worst joke I’ve ever heard,” Bucky tells him. He stares, trying to understand.

“I know,” Steve says, “I know. Here.” He won’t stay in his chair; he goes and grabs another towel from the hall closet and keeps soaking up water. “I forgot,” he says as he works, “I’m sorry—I forgot you don’t know, you’re not used to it. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky says, the words a sharp exhale. He runs a hand through his hair as his chest starts to warm up again. He knows now that it _was_ a joke—thinking back, he can tell—and feels a little silly for his reaction. And yet… “How the hell do you make jokes like that?”

“Well, doctors have been telling me I’m about to kick it since I was born,” Steve says, looking relieved at whatever expression is now on Bucky’s face. “I was supposed to die in a few weeks, but I didn’t, and then before my first birthday, but I didn’t, and then I should have been gone by the end of middle school, but I beat that too. Every year or two there’s something that should kill me. Nothing’s done it yet.”

Bucky realizes that he is standing woodenly while Steve mops the counter, and takes the towel back again. “Sit down,” he orders. There’s not really much left to do, so he goes back to the mug and sticks in a tea bag. “So—so you’re not,” he forces himself to say the word, _“terminal,_ or anything?”

“I promise I’m not,” Steve says, and when he takes the mug his hands cover Bucky’s for a moment, reassuring, steady.

“Okay.” Bucky spreads the towels over the oven handle to dry and collapses into his chair again. “Okay. Good.”

Steve still looks horribly guilty. “I make the jokes to Peggy mostly,” he says as if he’s trying to explain. “When we were together, right when my mom got sick, I had a kind of big health scare myself. She was with me for all of it, she gets it—she doesn’t really think it’s funny either, I guess, but she understands.” He half-smiles. “Not that you don’t. It’s just different.”

“I get that.” Jealousy is the farthest thing from Bucky’s mind right now—he’s still so full of relief, he could sing. He rubs his face and feels his pulse slow. “What were we even talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, laughing a little. He’s pale still, and holds himself gingerly, but the smile is real.

Steve says he’s not hungry, so Bucky eats the second sandwich from the night before and rolls his eyes when Steve apologizes for standing him up. “Although I do have a bone to pick with you about that,” he says. “Why didn’t you just tell me what was going on?”

“I couldn’t look at the phone screen for too long,” Steve says. “The light made the headache worse.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve said—I don’t know, _migraine, can’t come,”_ Bucky suggests. “You didn’t have to pretend like you got busy or something.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Steve says, shrugging. “I get migraines sometimes. They go away.”

“But why cover it up?” Bucky presses. “If it’s not a big deal?”

Steve regards him for a moment, then shakes his head. “I think I should keep you and Peggy separate from now on,” he says.

They spend another hour bumming around before Steve shoves Bucky out the door so he can go to work, insisting that he’s fine but still cocooned in the blanket up to his ears. Though he’s exhausted, Bucky enjoys work—they’re preparing to transition the rooftop garden for fall, though it’s not even September, and the careful deadheading is mindless enough that he can just enjoy the breeze on his skin, high up above the blare of car horns from the street.

He figures Natasha’s working inside, maybe subbing last-minute for a self-defense class or organizing the equipment storage, but in the staff room it’s just him and Bruce, who drains a glass of water in one and says, “You look like shit, Barnes.”

“You should see the other guy,” Bucky says on reflex. He thinks of Steve—as if he’s been doing anything else—and smiles at his own stupid joke. “I was just up really late.”

“Everything all right?” Bruce asks, frowning.

Bucky frowns back. “Yeah, why?”

“Well—I mean, do you know why Natasha didn’t show up?”

“Wait, what?” Bucky stops combing his sweat-mussed hair and turns to face him. “I thought she was just subbing.”

Bruce shakes his head. “She’s not here. You guys usually come in together, so I thought maybe you’d have the explanation.”

“I wasn’t home today,” Bucky tells him, “I didn’t see her.” He remembers her texts and rinses his comb off in the sink. “I’ll ask her,” he promises.

“It’s not a problem,” Bruce assures him, “she’s a good worker—but I just want to make sure she’s doing all right. With the hours, you know, and everything.”

“Sure.” But Bucky has to chuckle to himself as he walks out. He thinks he might know what’s up.

When he walks into the apartment, Natasha’s keys aren’t on the hook. Then he spots them on the corner of the table next to her tote bag. He knocks on her door. “You in there?”

She opens the bathroom door behind him. “Yeah?”

He turns around and is confronted with half-brushed hair and a puffy face. “You missed work—shit, are you okay?”

“I was up late,” she says with a grimace. “Was Bruce mad?” She retreats into the bathroom with the door open and resumes brushing her teeth.

“Nah, you know him. He was worried about you.” It looks, Bucky thinks, as if she’s just woken up, and he’s not so jealous that he can’t have a little fun. “Busy night?” he asks, grinning.

She says something with a mouth full of toothpaste that is no less meaningful for its unintelligibility. A minute later she spits. “You weren’t home, you can’t talk.”

“Yeah, bet you loved that.” He peeks out into the living room as if he might see Clint, but he’s left no trace. “Hope you had fun, at least.”

The whole conversation has Natasha looking supremely scornful. “You too, dickhead.”

It’s so uncharacteristic that Bucky stands surprised while she shuts herself in her room. “You want me to make you breakfast?” he calls through a moment later, never mind the fact that it’s dinnertime.

“No,” she calls back, and then a moment later, “thanks though.” So he digs out leftovers from behind a six-pack of beer in the fridge and eats those on his own, feeling as if he’s been doing a lot of this in the last twenty-four hours. As if on cue, Steve texts him to let him know that Peggy and Angie have decided on Wednesday night for the wedding-planning dinner.

—

Four days later, a few hours before he’s supposed to show up, Bucky calls Steve. “Help,” he says as soon as he picks up.

“With what?” Steve replies. There’s a banging noise in the background.

“What do I wear?”

Steve laughs. “It’s just a dinner, not the wedding itself. Come in whatever you’ve got on.”

Bucky looks down at his clothes, which are not stained, and his right hand, which does not have dirt under the nails, and feels inadequate. It’s somehow reminiscent of meeting the parents, he thinks, and it’s absurd. “I don’t know.”

“You already know them!” Steve reminds him. “You—we had a picnic with them, remember? It really doesn’t deserve this amount of consideration. You don’t even need to bring food.”

“Fuck,” Bucky says, “I didn’t even think of that. Should I?” He’s joking, but there’s another squeeze of worry in his chest all the same. There’s a loud crash on Steve’s end. “What are you doing over there?”

“Destroying the storage room,” Steve says, sounding slightly strained. “Accidentally. I’m looking for a file—got to send something to the guy from Utah, for the art festival—and I can’t figure out where I put it.” There’s another clang. “Goddammit. Can I call you back?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky tells him. “Just don’t let the cabinet fall on you. I’ll see you at dinner.”

After he hangs up, though, he scrutinizes himself in the bathroom mirror. Is he being stupid? Almost certainly. So he declines Natasha’s offer of a drink to loosen up and pass the time, and distracts himself instead by going out and buying vegetables, which he then turns into a salad. All joking aside, he’ll be damned if he turns up to this thing empty-handed.

Which turns into a problem when he has to juggle the salad bowl and Angie’s fist bump when she opens the door, but she either tastefully ignores the flash of metal or she doesn’t see it. Peggy takes over immediately, berating him for bringing food but beaming all the same—and then Steve squeezes in behind him and shakes his head in mock-despair when he sees the salad. And they all crowd into the very small kitchen, though there’s nothing left that needs cooking, and Steve loops his arm through Bucky’s. And it feels very warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	8. Part Three: Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for an alcohol mention.

For hours at a time, Steve begins shutting himself up in a back room of the gallery and letting only Jarvis in or out. Bucky finds this out when he shows up with his customary herbal tea and coffee to find Tony at the desk and muted big band jazz coming from no discernable source. Tony squints against the slanting afternoon sunlight when the bell chimes. “He’s in the back,” he says, jerking his head towards the door behind him. “Thank God you’re here.”

“What, you don’t like his music?” Bucky says. He sets the cardboard cup holder on the desk in order to press his hands into the small of his back.

“It’s not that,” Tony says, scribbling on a sticky note, “well, I guess I can’t stand that either, but he took my cat.” He slaps the note on top of the tea, and Bucky reads upside-down: _jarvis does not belong to you, you bastard._

He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “I’ll see if I can get him back. What’s Steve doing back there?” he adds as the saxophones swell.

“No idea,” Tony says with a scowl. “He covers it up every time anyone goes in. Something for the art festival, I’m pretty sure.”

Bucky heads for the back room, his curiosity piqued. When he knocks on the door—it’s locked, he discovers after trying the knob—Steve says over the music, “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Bucky calls through.

The volume of the music goes down significantly two seconds later, and then Bucky can hear him dragging something that sounds very heavy across the hardwood floor. Then the door opens, surprising Bucky, who’s pretty sure he looks exactly like someone caught listening at the keyhole. Which, he supposes, he was. “Hey,” Steve says with a hint of suspicion.

“I brought tea,” Bucky says, proffering it by way of appeasement.

Smiling, Steve takes it delicately—his hands are covered in something dry and white that speckles up his forearms as well—and stands aside to let Bucky in. He reads the note and grimaces, glancing to the table pushed up against the wall, where Jarvis is sitting squeezed happily into a cardboard box. “I’m not a bastard,” he complains, “I just like cats. And I need the company.”

“Well, I’m here,” Bucky points out.

“Hm. I guess.” Steve grins at him over his tea. “How was work?”

“All right.”

“You look sore.”

“I _look_ sore?”

“Like me,” Steve explains, “on a bad day.”

Bucky clicks his tongue in sympathy. “I’m good,” he says, “we just did a lot of different stuff today, getting the gardens ready for winter. Lots of bending over, moving heavy things.”

“Move one more heavy thing for me?” Steve asks. He points to the looming tarp in the center of the room, covering something tall and undefined. “It’s on a wheeled platform, can you just push it over against the wall?”

Pursing his lips good-naturedly, Bucky goes over to it, but hesitates to touch it. “This is a project, right? Where should I—?”

“Anywhere,” Steve says, stroking Jarvis absently. “You won’t hurt it.”

Doubtfully, Bucky does as he’s told. It feels hard and sharp beneath the scratchy plastic. “What is it?”

“You know I’m not gonna tell you,” Steve says, laughing. “Keep asking and I’ll have to scrap it and start over.”

“What’s that, then?” Bucky nods at a container of white powder.

Steve throws him a look of resignation. “Plaster of Paris. And that’s all I’m telling you.”

“Fine. I’ll get Peggy to tell me.” But Steve recognizes it for the empty threat it is, and blows him a kiss from out of a chalky palm.

—

Surprisingly, the blank notebook beside Bucky’s bed begins to fill up. He doesn’t know what’s changed, but it’s as if some block in his head has vanished. He remembers his dreams. He can think of words to put them on the paper. And that’s not always a good thing—he rarely likes what he remembers—but Sam says it’ll help. So he does it.

“Do you think it helps, though?” Steve asks. He’s got his legs dangling through the bars of the fire escape and his face pressed up against the metal like a little kid. From the rickety stairs behind him, Bucky can only see the back of his head, the skinny knob of his spine above the collar of his t-shirt. “I mean, do you notice any difference?”

“I guess,” Bucky says uncertainly. “Or—I don’t know. I think about it a lot of the time. Like, not just when I wake up. All day. And I notice when things remind me of whatever the dream was about. But is that helpful?”

Steve looks around as if he’s really considering his answer. Ultimately, though, he only says, “I think that’s for you to decide.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, blowing the word out in a big gust. “Unfortunately.”

“If you want,” Steve says tentatively, then pauses. “No pressure—whatever you’re comfortable with, obviously—but if you want a different perspective, I could take a look at it. If you want. Just to give a second opinion, or whatever.”

The suggestion could have come from Bucky’s own mouth. He’s thought of it more than once—just to share it, to tell someone—to tell _Steve,_ who has burrowed under Bucky’s skin and made a home in his chest. The fact that Steve is offering means more to him than he knows how to express. But as always, when he actually imagines it, he is nearly sick with fear. Even his most recent dream, a less awful variant, would be too big of a risk. _I was in the snow,_ he wrote in the notebook, _barefoot, and there were guards blocking me. I couldn’t get past, there were so many. All of them sounded the same. I had to get out, and I tried so hard but it didn’t work. Everything was red. I could hear it._ He hadn’t been able to write more than that, because the fear had risen in him again as he clutched the pen tight. He tries to associate the terror with anything, like Sam asks him to, but at best he can only get _metal._ He can’t tell Steve. There’s no room in their gentleness for the things he would have to say.

He pushes off the stairs and kneels beside Steve, takes one of his hands from the bars and holds it to his chest. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said,” he tells him, “but I don’t think it would work. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Steve breezes. “The offer stands, though, if you ever change your mind.”

“I know,” Bucky says. He does. It fills him so full of wonder that it hurts.

—

On the first day that it truly feels like fall—something in the air, a crispness where it touches Bucky’s skin and a golden tint to the sunlight—Bucky’s shift at the community center is canceled. He calls Steve, intending to suggest that they go to Central Park or Coney this time to make up for the date they missed.

“Hi,” Steve says upon picking up, and immediately asks, “can you come over?”

“Now?” Bucky asks, surprised. In the second after he speaks he registers a strange flatness in Steve’s voice, almost as if he’s just got out of bed, but not quite.

“If you have time,” Steve says.

“I—yeah, for sure.”

“Thanks,” Steve says quietly, and there’s a moment where his breath catches as if he’s about to say something more—and then the he hangs up.

Bucky’s mind immediately goes to illness or some kind of accident, and he’s not sure if it’s because he’s starting to get a feel for the kind of life Steve lives or if he himself is just a collection of jangling nerves that vaguely resembles a person. Either way, he tells Natasha goodbye and heads out.

Steve buzzes him in immediately when Bucky reaches the apartment building, which is reassuring. He answers the door with his face pale and stands fidgeting in the middle of the kitchen while Bucky wonders whether or not he should take his shoes off. “Thanks,” Steve says abruptly after a second. “Again. For coming over.”

“What’s up?” Bucky asks, because it’s clear that something is.

Agitatedly, Steve twists his hands together, his face furrowed in thought. “I, um,” he says, and exhales. It sounds shaky. “Don’t get weird.”

Bucky keeps his shoes on and walks over to Steve, deciding at the last moment not to take his hand. “Weird about what?” he asks. “What—”

“It’s just, this is hard for me to say,” Steve bursts out, “but, um, I guess I didn’t expect to feel so bad, because it’s—well, my mom died six years ago today,” he swallows and rushes on, “and usually I do stuff to deal with it but—this year it kind of fell through, I guess.” He finishes talking without sounding like he means to, like he’s just run out of words.

“Okay,” is what Bucky comes out with, and he wants to sew his mouth shut because what kind of response is that? He takes in again the stiff way that Steve is standing and the clench of his jaw. “You want me to keep you company?” he offers—because it’s clear that Steve does want it, even if he can’t or won’t say.

Steve exhales again, big, and his eyes find Bucky’s. “You got time?”

It shouldn’t even be a question. “Sure I do,” Bucky tells him.

Steve nods. “It’s—I’m usually not,” he starts to say, and then bites his lip. “Can we—would it be okay,” he says carefully, “if we visited the cemetery? We could borrow Tony’s Mustang. It’s not too far.”

“That sounds fine,” Bucky replies, equally careful. He’s starting to think that it probably doesn’t matter what he says as long as he doesn’t leave—and he has no idea what to do, but he’ll follow Steve as long as he needs it. Till his feet fall off. “You want me to—?”

“I’ll call him,” Steve says, shaking his head. And then he does, and fifteen minutes later Steve is giving Tony a smile that looks deceptively genuine and turning the keys in the ignition.

It becomes clear that the cemetery must be on the outskirts of the city, and soon they’ve left the crush of streets behind. Out in the open it’s cold with the top down, a stark difference from the trip in July, but Steve doesn’t look like he cares. He keeps his eyes on the road, both hands gripping the wheel, his hair whipped up by the wind.

They don’t talk much. For a while Bucky worries that he’s supposed to offer some kind of words—he thinks of two-dozen lines that all sound horrible—but just as the silence starts to get really bad, Steve says, loudly enough to be heard over the wind, “She wanted to be buried somewhere with trees. This was as close as she could get.” There’s a wry smile around his mouth.

Bucky sees why: out here the landscape is turning rapidly to suburbs, with only a few scraggly-looking trees that dot the side of the road every few miles. “Nicer than the middle of the city, though.”

Steve nods. He’s quiet again for a while, then says, “Sorry for dragging you along.” He glances over at Bucky, then back to the road. “I know you’re gonna say I shouldn’t apologize. You’re right.” But he doesn’t say he isn’t sorry.

After what amounts to a forty-five minute drive, Steve slows down and turns off onto a bumpy dirt road. He takes a corner so sharply that Bucky nearly chokes on his seatbelt, and when he looks over, Steve’s squinting into the glare. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, flashing him what appears to be a real smile this time. “Yeah—sorry—” He takes another curve, more gently this time. “You?”

“I’m good,” Bucky replies, taken aback by the question. Thirty seconds later they pass a sign for Apple Grove Memorial Gardens and park in the nearly-empty lot. “You, uh, want me to wait here?” Bucky asks.

“Not if you don’t want to.” Steve gets out of the car and squints out over the field of stones. “I mean, it’s your choice, either way.” He stands awkwardly for a second—Bucky wonders if he is regretting bringing him, if he would rather have privacy despite his words—and then shrugs. “You could also walk around,” he says. “It’s real nice. There are some paths. She’s—I’ll be over there.” He points with his chin.

“Okay.” As soon as Bucky says it, Steve turns and heads off in the direction he indicated with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, and Bucky watches him go. He cuts a lonely figure between the tombstones and monuments. After a second, Bucky looks away, feeling intrusive, and picks a path at random to meander down.

He thinks, as he walks, about what he knows of Steve’s mother. It’s not much. Just that she was sick around the time when Steve dropped out of art school. He hadn’t even known, until today, that she was dead. Imagining Steve puttering around the apartment this morning before he called is a mental picture that hurts. He can’t possibly blame Steve for not telling him sooner—it would be the height of hypocrisy, not to mention plain monstrous—but he feels honored, somehow, to have been told now. Honored and sad and deeply in love. And a little guilty for it.

At one point he catches sight of Steve sitting cross-legged on the grass before a grave, though he’s too far away to see anything more than that. After about half an hour Bucky circles back around and reads the signs at the cemetery gate, which explain the history of the property and list a few famous graves. Before he can go looking for those, though, he sees that Steve is walking back towards him.

He’s dry-eyed, not pale anymore, his cheeks instead pink from the chill breeze that has sprung up. He gives Bucky a grimace that is probably supposed to be another smile. “You ready to go?” Bucky asks uncertainly.

In answer, Steve gets into the driver’s seat. He backs out of the spot as soon as Bucky’s seatbelt is latched, and they’ve been driving for less than ten minutes before Bucky realizes that Steve is crying.

He’s obviously trying not to. He is taking mostly-measured breaths that hitch on both ends and there are tears rolling down his cheeks which he wipes feverishly. When he notices that Bucky has noticed, he gives a watery laugh and sniffs. But the crying doesn’t stop—and as Bucky watches it grows more intense, until eventually he reaches over to touch Steve’s hand on the wheel. “Pull over,” he urges, “let’s take a break.”

Steve does, and with the engine turned down his breathing sounds agonized. Immediately after putting on the hazard lights he gets out of the car and sits hunched-over on the hood; Bucky sits indecisively for a moment, then gets out and joins him. He still doesn’t know what to do but he has to do _something._ Hesitantly, he puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder. It seems to come as a surprise: Steve looks at him suddenly through red eyes with his mouth half-open, a question on his lips.

For the second time that day, Bucky asks it for him. “Can I give you a hug?” And he catches Steve when he falls toward him, holds him tight while Steve’s fingers fist in the back of his shirt. It is nice, he thinks—not that Steve is crying, of course not, but to hold him, to feel him in his arms and run his fingers through his hair—a kind of touch he’s rarely known. It doesn’t frighten him at all.

Slowly, Steve quiets, stays leaning against him even after the worst of the crying has passed. Bucky can feel the line of his nose pressing into his chest through the wet spot on his shirt. “I don’t usually break down,” Steve mumbles at length.

Bucky stays where he is, supporting Steve’s slight weight against his shoulder. “Do you come out here every year?”

Steve nods into his shirt. “With Peggy, the last five years. But this time I… thought maybe I wouldn’t need to ask. She’s busy.” He sniffs. “She’s getting married.”

Bucky shifts so that Steve’s head is tucked under his chin, the two of them pressed together in a way that he hopes feels as comforting to Steve as it does to him. “I’m glad you asked me,” he says.

“Yeah, me too.” Steve’s hands knot around Bucky’s waist. “It’s not just that I didn’t want to be alone. I mean, I didn’t. But I’m glad it was you.”

Privately, Bucky thinks that he didn’t do anything—God, he spent most of the time certain that he was fucking up in some deep and horrible way. But that doesn’t feel like anything that needs to be said right now. He kisses Steve’s hair, which has been warmed by the sunlight.

Steve pulls away and sniffs again, wipes his eyes on his sleeve, breathes out in a bracing way. “You, um, you wanna see a picture?” he asks, already pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolls through the photos for a few seconds, then holds the phone out to Bucky.

On the screen he sees a middle-aged woman smiling on a bright day, her blonde hair—the same shade as Steve’s—curling gently and her arm around a younger Steve, who is wearing a high school graduation cap. Even if the physical resemblance weren’t so obvious, it would be clear that they’re related just from her smile. The Steve in the photo appears mildly embarrassed and is not looking at the camera—but his mother is beaming, and it takes over her whole face in a way that Bucky finds is familiar. Even the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. Bucky states the obvious. “She looks like you.”

Beside him, Steve nods. “Yeah, she—she worked at a hospital, and all the other nurses always recognized me without having to be introduced.” He pauses. “I was never sure if that was just because I was always getting sick with one thing or another, though.”

“Was it just the two of you?”

“Yep. My dad died in Iraq a few months before I was born.” Steve takes his phone back and starts looking for another picture. “Mom never talked about him a lot—oh, here, this is a good one.”

Bucky looks. In this photo, Steve’s mother is wearing nurse’s scrubs and looking sideways at the camera, her face caught halfway to a smile. Here, somehow, the resemblance is even more striking. “When was this taken?” Bucky asks. He can’t tell if she looks any younger or older than the first picture.

“The summer before she got sick,” Steve says, “uh, 2013, I guess.” He looks at the photo for a minute longer, then turns off the screen and puts it back in his pocket. And then he just sits, staring ahead at the empty road. After a while he looks over at Bucky. “She’d have liked you.”

It throws Bucky more than anything else so far. “You think?”

“Definitely.” Steve grins at him. It looks, for the first time today, absolutely wholehearted. “She would’ve told you to give me more of a hard time, though. She used to tell me I’d have to get with someone who would see through my bullshit.”

Bucky laughs. “I think I might know what she meant.”

“I figured,” Steve chuckles. “You should do it more, though, you know. Tell me to get it together.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” But Bucky’s pretty sure there wouldn’t be much for him to say—sure, Steve is bull-headed and seems to have little to no respect for his own physical health, but the confidence with which he does it all is nothing short of amazing to Bucky. The fact that he can smile on a day like today, for instance, never mind that it’s been six years. The bullshit, he thinks, must be more of a thin veneer.

He can’t say how long they sit there on the dusty shoulder. Eventually, though, Steve says he’s cold, so they get back in the car and drive back into the city. Bucky offers to stick around for the rest of the afternoon—he figures he’d hate to be alone. But Steve says he’d rather just take a nap, and Bucky’s not sure if he really means to, but that’s understandable, too.

—

For the next few days he’s careful, trying to give Steve whatever distance he might need but not wanting to cut him off unnecessarily. It’s made harder by the fact that the memory of the rest of that long drive back to Brooklyn will not let him go. Nothing happened—Steve didn’t say much, but he didn’t cry or pull over again—and that’s the thing. He was all right. Not fine, probably, but okay.

Bucky remembers how he sounded on the phone, cautious and measured. He remembers too their date at midsummer, the way Steve walked until he couldn’t anymore and then sat down in the grass and very carefully told him a secret. Admiration rises in him, not for the first time. And a small amount of jealousy.

It’s not until two weeks later that he puts it all together. “Are you still having a lot of nightmares?” Steve asks him over the noise of the television. They are sitting in the same chair, the armchair rather than the couch, mostly because there is a laundry basket and several piles of folders on the couch but also because Bucky sat down there first and Steve asked if there was any extra room. There isn’t—but Bucky likes the warmth, and it makes Steve happy.

Bucky shrugs. “No worse than before.”

Steve is quiet. “It makes me sad,” he says after a moment, “that I can’t help.”

“You do help,” Bucky tells him. “You—God, every day.”

“I hope so,” Steve murmurs, and twists around on his lap. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.” As Steve leans in, as their lips touch, Bucky marvels at the way they fit together. It’s something he would never have dreamed a year ago: that he could rest his hands, both of them, against Steve’s collarbone. That Steve might kiss him hot and needy and slow, slow. That Bucky could rock his hips, ever so slightly, and that the name Steve sighs into his mouth would be Bucky’s own. He shifts to hold Steve better, tilts his head up.

Going along with it, Steve straddles him more firmly and kisses Bucky’s jaw with the barest hint of teeth. At the same time he shifts; both of them are half-hard already, and still some inane documentary drones quietly on in the background. “You know, I was thinking,” Steve says, his voice low, snaking both hands up underneath Bucky’s shirt—

For some reason it makes fear spike through Bucky’s brain, but he shoves it down, muscles himself under control and answers only a second too late. “What?” he asks, breathless.

But Steve pulls back a few inches. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky assures him. He is—he is—he wants so badly to be. He leans forward and kisses Steve again and his heart flutters in response. Steve is warm, soft—and his weight, often comforting, is suddenly and unbearably smothering. Bucky shakes his head. “Wait. No.”

It takes Steve a second to register, but then he sits back, drops his hands. “Bucky?”

It’s still too much. “Can you just—can you get off for a sec,” Bucky says, making an effort to speak clearly. But his pulse is ratcheting higher even as Steve backs away, his breath coming fast and shallow and he—it doesn’t make _sense,_ and he clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to feel it—

“It’s okay.” Steve’s voice breaks through the static like a bad radio signal. “You’re okay. Open your eyes, Bucky, do—do you know where you are?”

He has to fight it. He forces his eyes open, his throat constricted and his fingers twisted into claws so tight it hurts.

“Do you know where you are?” comes the question again. “Do you recognize anything?”

There is—there is a window, Bucky latches onto it, the fake flowers in a pot on the sill, a weathered coffee table with a crooked leg. Yellow walls glowing green in a harsh blue light. Him, Bucky, a body stiff and trembling with it, and in front of him Steve. Bucky nods. “Brooklyn. Your place. I—the TV,” he says weakly, “I can’t—” Steve turns it off, and then they’re in the dark. Without the voices and the music, it’s quieter in Bucky’s head. He can hear his own uneven breathing.

Steve is still standing a few feet away, peculiarly frozen with one hand outstretched. Now he lets it drop and sits on the edge of the coffee table. “Are you—,” he says, and then falls silent.

The train in Bucky’s chest rattles on. He focuses on keeping his breathing under control which is hard because half of his thoughts are stuck in ice, trapped beneath harsh fluorescent lights, echoing around in his too-empty brain. He shakes his head to clear it—gets dizzy. Slumps in the chair.

“Hey, take it slow,” Steve says, hands suddenly on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky lurches away but there’s nowhere to go. “I don’t want,” he chokes out, and the rest of the words die in his throat. He is parched. He is drained. He is bleeding out on the snowy ground.

“Okay. It’s okay.” Quiet, mostly whispered. “Do you want some water?”

Carefully, Bucky nods. He hears footsteps and the noise of a faucet, running water, footsteps again. All of it from a great distance and yet also too loud. He takes the water but can only sip at it. Some of the feeling comes back into his body, though, along with a heightened awareness of how tightly he has clenched every part of himself. He loosens his jaw and cracks it to speak. “I’m okay.”

Steve nods uncertainly from his perch on the coffee table. “Good. If—do you want the lights on?”

It might help; it might make things worse. Bucky doesn’t even know if it would matter.

“Or we could just sit,” Steve adds into the silence.

The option—the solution, the release from having to choose—is a miracle. Bucky closes his eyes again and tries to let himself fade into the darkness. “How,” he says when that doesn’t work, “how did you know what to say?”

For a second Steve is quiet. “The questions?” he asks softly. “Natasha told me. She said it might help. If, you know.”

“Oh,” Bucky sighs.

As if he can hear the desperation in Bucky’s voice, the way that he needs it, Steve keeps talking. “Yeah, she mentioned it a while ago. After the weekend at Clint’s place. She came into the gallery to talk to him and ended up telling this god-awful story…”

It’s hard to follow the thread that Steve goes down, but Bucky doesn’t mind. It’s better to think about that than what would otherwise be waiting for him. At a certain point Steve stops talking and they just sit in the darkness some more—but by then, it isn’t so bad. Bucky finishes his water. The fingers of his right hand feel like uncooked noodles, brittle and weak. His left hand—he tries not to look at it, but it gleams in the dim light from the window.

“Is there anything I can do?” Steve asks at length. “I don’t—I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“I just want to sleep,” Bucky whispers back.

“Here, or—?” Steve pauses halfway to his feet. “I won’t touch you.”

Bucky follows him to the bedroom door and waits in the pitch black—the curtains here have been drawn—until Steve has, by the sound of it, changed clothes. Then there is a quiet creak as he sits on the bed. “Come on,” Steve says, “come here. Just lie down.”

Mechanically, Bucky takes off his sweater and does as he’s told, grateful for the instruction even as it sickens him.

“I’ll be right here all night,” Steve tells him. “I won’t leave you.”

“Okay.” He breathes in and out, lying on his back, staring into nothing. He is exhausted—bone tired, so tired it hurts. But his mind keeps spinning, long after Steve—despite his best efforts—has fallen asleep. In the dark, the thoughts come back, and this time it’s harder to pull himself out of them. He doesn’t forget where he is, which might have something to do with the light snoring at his side, but lying still is more than he can bear despite the aching of his limbs and the desire to just melt away.

Eventually he stands up and feels his way to the door and out into the hall. The ticking clock sends anxious goosebumps up his arms, so he takes it down and removes the battery with clumsy fingers. He drops it and hears it roll over to the window, but when he goes to retrieve it Bucky is distracted by the view out into the night. The city gleams, blinding, stretching high up above where he stands on the seventh floor. It drowns, for a moment, the metallic scraping of his memories, the way the world seems to shudder and careen off-track, the way it threatens to fall out from under him. Steadies him just enough to grab onto the sill and suck in a breath, plant his feet more firmly. _Brooklyn,_ he reminds himself, _Steve’s apartment. Water Street._ He really is down here somewhere in this constellation of other people’s lives. And he feels tiny—absolutely insignificant—and remembers from what feels like years ago: _sometimes it’s kind of nice._ Something slots into place.

“Bucky?” comes the quiet voice behind him. Bucky turns around. Steve stands there in too-big clothes, blinking the sleep from his eyes. The streetlights cast him in a faint glow. “Everything okay?”

The way he asks it gives Bucky an idea of the sight he must be, hands too empty at the ends of his wrists and a face like a mask he doesn’t know how to take off. “I’m… I can’t stop thinking about—things,” he says, “things that happened. And I don’t—I don’t want to—” He shakes his head, swallows hard. “I don’t know what to think.” The words just don’t come, fracturing somewhere before they can even become conscious thoughts. He hears his own voice like a single thread about to snap. “I’m really—it’s not good, it’s not good. I don’t know.”

Steve shuffles closer, fingering the worn hem of his shirt. “I’m here,” he says, “you don’t have to do anything. I’m with you. I’m here.” Just that, repeated, like Bucky’s own mantra except it anchors him to something more solid than his own crumbling consciousness. “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’m with you.”

Bucky sinks onto the couch and Steve sits beside him. Between them there is no air, but something strong and nearly palpable, and it draws Bucky in like the promise of the sleep he wants so desperately. “Could you maybe,” Bucky says, unsure of how much he can take, “maybe you could hold me for a while.”

“Sure,” Steve says, and like a ghost his hand travels up Bucky’s arm, slow and soft enough that he doesn’t startle like before. They fall together and it is quiet, so quiet, the beat of Steve’s heart a muted rhythm that Bucky tries to match to his own. This is all that is in the world: the two of them and the shape they make and the universe of lights burning above. “I’ve got you,” Steve whispers.

He whispers that again and other things besides, and eventually Bucky pulls away because it starts to hurt again, but Steve stays with him and they both fall asleep at opposite ends of the ratty, sagging couch. He wakes in the morning to sunlight golden on the walls and the sight of Steve curled up against the armrest.

It aches all through his body when he stands up, and his head pounds fiercely. He boils enough water for two and makes tea in the elephant mug, then sits at the table and waits for it to steep. The night before doesn’t come back to him, it never left, but it floats up to the surface of his mind in pieces: the light of the television, his own labored breathing, soft hands on the back of his neck. He wants to feel guilty—isn’t that strange, that he _wants_ to, that he feels as if he should have destroyed something in his blind and screeching terror—but in the memory of Steve’s touch and the hours when he couldn’t bear even that, he doesn’t think he’s broken anything.

He thinks about it more while Steve stirs into wakefulness. He finds that he is mostly just grateful, for the patience and the kindness and the rest, all of it, which he supposes is love. And then he doesn’t have to wonder at it anymore, because it’s only what he himself felt in the cemetery, at the Met, on the floor of Steve’s bathroom in the face of his pain and weakness. It wasn’t romantic—and, God, neither was his breakdown last night—but it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. And this, whatever it is, love or something deeper, isn’t going to wither with disuse if they don’t touch each other. It will wait for them.

Steve pours himself his own tea and sits across from him at the table, a scene they’ve inhabited dozens of times before. Looking at him, threadbare t-shirt hanging off one shoulder and tangled hair falling in his eyes, the words rise to Bucky’s lips without having to think about it. “About last night,” he says.

With a furrowed brow, Steve looks at him. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says, “you don’t owe me an explanation—”

“I know,” Bucky interrupts. He takes a deep breath; it’s true, and he knows it, but obligation isn’t at play here. “I know I don’t have to tell you. I want to.” He sneaks a peek up at Steve’s face. It isn’t about fairness or guilt or some kind of repayment—quite simply, he wants Steve to know. He wants this to be between them, and though he sees uncertainty on Steve’s face, he tries hard not to let it bleed into his own voice.

And then Steve pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Okay, Buck,” he says, “if you think so.”

But that support, almost like permission, doesn’t make it any easier to start. “I—told you once,” Bucky says, “that I was a prisoner of war. But I’m not. I mean—there’s no war. I was part of a special ops group. Classified,” he clarifies, and he can’t look at Steve anymore so he takes a sip of tea. “Anyways—long story short—I was in Austria, in the alps. On a train.”

He knows he’s told Steve some of this before, in broken sentences whispered into the phone, a night he remembers only in fragments. He tries to gather himself, but it’s harder than he’d thought to just say it. “The mission went wrong somehow—they told me the details after I got back, but all I knew was that I fell off the tracks, fell down into a ravine.” He can feel himself falling again, but the memory goes quickly, blissfully black. “But I didn’t die.” He takes another drink of tea and rubs his hands over his face. “And I woke up drugged all to hell in the base of the guys we were trying to get in the first place.”

He has not carefully considered what he’ll tell Steve about the parts that come next. So he tries to start the way he wishes it had started for him, if it had had to start in the first place—with the reason, the point of it all. “At first they just wanted to interrogate me, figure out what we knew, all of our plans. It was bad,” Bucky says, “but the next part was worse.”

“I can’t imagine,” Steve murmurs, and he looks like he’s just tried to picture it. “I—you mean they—”

“Torture, yeah,” Bucky says heavily. “And once they figured I wouldn’t talk, they turned me over to—to this one guy,” he stumbles over the words and chokes on the name. “Zola. He was experimenting, trying to work out how to get people to work for them, to create some kind of perfect soldier. Like out of a bad science-fiction movie.”

“They can do that?” Steve sounds sick.

Bucky shakes his head convulsively. “No. But they tried. They gave me the arm”—he gestures to it with a jerk of his head—“I lost mine when I fell off the train, and they—they had this chair,” he clears his throat, “like at the dentist? Except, uh, electric. And it would go over my face.” He indicates the places, over his left eye and right temple and cheek. “Some kind of shot at brainwashing. Mostly all it did was force them to keep me drugged all the time.”

He is now more afraid than ever to look at Steve, and, God, he would love for it to be over now. But he told himself that he would say it, tell it all, the truth of it. “The stuff they gave me made it worse. Eventually I could barely fight anymore—didn’t know day from night, not that it mattered, they kept me inside all the time.” His voice falters on him and he sees, out of the corner of his eye, Steve make some uncertain movement. “It was all one long nightmare.”

When he’s silent, and then still silent, Steve asks, “How did you get out?”

It’s a question he can’t avoid answering, and in truth he doesn’t want to—if only it weren’t so hard. If only the thought of it didn’t make him want to run for cover, to bury himself somewhere dark and quiet; if only he could cut it out of himself and continue on unburdened. “I barely remember,” he says truthfully. “I woke up and—something had happened, something was wrong. I could think more clearly. And there was a guard and he—I wasn’t strapped down—” Bucky shakes his head. Forces down the bile that rises in his throat at the ghost-sensation in his arm. “—And then I saw—they hadn’t locked the door. Didn’t think I’d wake up. I got a message out over their radio. And I didn’t know if anyone had received it—or where I was, or if it was all some kind of trap. I couldn’t get out, anyways. They caught me again after fifteen minutes.”

As if bidden to memorize the scratches in Steve’s kitchen table, Bucky keeps his eyes locked on the cheap wood. He has to fight to keep talking, but something’s drawing the words out of him now like poison from a wound and he has to keep going, gets the sense that he has to say it, even if it kills him. It hurts enough that he thinks it might: deep in his chest, in all his limbs. “I thought that was it. It was over. I wasn’t ever getting out.” Steve makes a noise that Bucky can’t identify. “And then—they told me, the guys who did finally get me out, they told me it was only a week later—the base was busted open. What happened in that last week was—well, worse than all the rest, just about.” But he stops himself just short of saying why. The last bastion of reason in his head makes him sure that Steve does not need to hear it.

“I didn’t realize what was happening,” he says instead, springing over it. “I thought—I don’t know, I thought the world was ending—and I couldn’t see straight, could hardly stand up, but it was complete chaos and I just—I just ran,” he says, “out into the snow, and I didn’t know who was coming after me. They got me in a chopper. And I was so”—he swallows hard—“I was so scared, I didn’t know, I didn’t—” He’s babbling, he can hear it, but something in his throat is clawing to get out. He cannot say it. He must. He looks up at Steve through eyes that sting and yet are dry. “Steve, I k—I killed two of them,” he says like a plea. “I didn’t know I was free. I thought they were gonna take me back for more. I didn’t know.”

He doesn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know, he didn’t know. Anything more that he adds would, he thinks, only make it worse—and he isn’t looking at Steve anymore, can’t stomach the expression that must be on his face, though of course Steve would try to hide it. In the silence that fills the room now in the vacuum of his own twisted words, the doubt grows. Bucky can’t believe that he’s said it, after all the times Sam urged him to tell someone, can’t believe that he has actually unearthed such a despicable thing and placed it between them. The seconds mount; Bucky can’t hear the clock ticking and vaguely remembers dismantling it. A sense of finality settles over him. He’s laid a twisted and filthy part of the world bare and told Steve, more or less, _this is inside of me_ —and now it’s in the clear morning air and Bucky can hardly breathe with how sick and gnarled and monstrous he feels.

He can’t look at Steve. He can’t look. He hears the scrape as Steve pushes his chair back and wildly he is sure that Steve will open the door and tell him to walk through it. But the scraping continues. Steve drags his chair around the table to Bucky’s side and sits next to him, their knees almost touching. He’s still afraid to look. “Can I,” Steve says, tentative and soft, “can I give you a hug?”

Now the ache in Bucky’s throat is sharp like a knife. “No,” he chokes, unable to bear the thought of the constriction, but he reaches out still and Steve takes his hands in both of his, holds them more tightly than Bucky can ever remember being held.

He loses track of how long they sit like that, the sun slowly filling up the apartment, the tea growing cold on the table. Breathing becomes easier: he wants to press a kiss to Steve’s cheek, and so he asks, and then he does, and Steve gets up and makes breakfast. Bucky comes up behind him while he’s fiddling with the toaster. He asks again, tentative. He leans on him, not enough to set the alarm bells ringing, just enough to take in his scent of honey and warmth and the thunderstorm hanging sharp and heavy in the air.

—

After that it’s hard to say how things change, mostly because Bucky has nothing to measure it against. For so long it’s been him and the thoughts in his head against the world, and try as he might he had never been able to share much of it with Sam—but now there is someone else who knows, someone who doesn’t run from him. Not that anyone has run: that’s the whole point, and it mystifies Bucky every time he thinks of it, the fact that Steve is with him and shows no sign of leaving. The thought that he might just love him anyways.

And to tell the truth—which Bucky tries to do more now—things don’t change all that much. They still sit curled in on each other on the couch, still spend hours enjoying the waning sunlight as October marches on into November, and Bucky learns that Steve buys tiny little sugar pumpkins and places them strategically around the apartment and gallery. A few make it over to Bucky’s own apartment, too—maybe that’s it, the change, the breathing room that Bucky grants himself. He brings Steve to his place for the first time and it’s not like a secret but it is something different: _here, this is where I would always go when it was too much, here, this is the place I learned how to be human again._

Bucky is cleaning off the table in the kitchen for dinner one evening—a ridiculous amount of detritus has built up somehow, junk mail and receipts and two or three empty plates—and drops the pile of papers into Steve’s lap. “Can you put this over on the coffee table?”

Steve clucks at him. “This is horrible. You should just chuck it all.” But he gets up and brings it to the living room, then bumps his hip against the couch and almost falls over. He catches himself and gets down on his knees to pick up the stray leaflets that have scattered across the floor while Bucky grins. “Someone getting surgery?” Steve asks after a moment.

He only sounds mildly curious, but a chill steals through Bucky’s blood. “No, that’s—Nat’s stuff.” He sets the plates into the sink and hurries over to the living room. “I’ll put it in her room.”

“It’s got your name on it,” Steve says uncertainly, but he hands it over without any hesitation.

Looking down at the brochure in his hand, Bucky sees Sam’s blocky writing: _Bucky Barnes - 15/6_. He bites his lip and weighs in his mind his queasiness against the support Steve has always shown him—as well as his new endeavor to be honest. “My therapist gave it to me back in June,” he says at last. “Sorry. It’s—I don’t need surgery.”

Steve lets the issue drop and shuffles all the other papers into order, and then he’s off despairing about finding space in the gallery for all the new pieces from the art festival in addition to the regular seasonal changes.

But Bucky slides the brochure into his back pocket. That night after kissing Steve goodbye he pulls it out again and feels the uneasiness settle, leaden, into his stomach. He has never actually read the whole thing through—it always seemed like a cliff’s edge, somehow, as if by fully informing himself he would be crossing a point of no return. And he’s not sure why he’s decided to read it now, except maybe because what he told Steve still feels a little bit like a lie.

The print is small and there are only a few very sparse diagrams of the clip-art variety. Bucky has to scan the thing twice before he can get through the frankly horrifyingly stark language and understand that Sam and Natasha were both telling him the truth: nothing like this has been done before. The pamphlet doesn’t hide the fact that it’s experimental, either—but there are names in the “Who Are We?” section that he vaguely remembers being floated in his month of formal rehab. So at least it’s not a bunch of creeps in a basement somewhere.

And now he’s crossed this event horizon. He stays sitting with his finger frozen on _our delicate procedures leave minimal scarring_ and thinks of the information-emails Sam has sent him, no strings attached and never discussed face-to-face, that he has left unread in his inbox for months now. He thinks—he doesn’t know what he thinks. He doesn’t know where to start.

“At ease, soldier,” Natasha deadpans five minutes later when she comes in the door and gets no reaction at all. “What are you—oh.”

“Figured it was maybe about time,” Bucky says, twisting in his chair. “Were you out with Clint?”

She shakes her head and starts stripping off her jacket. “Therapy. And then I hit the bar.”

Bucky checks his phone; it’s later than he thought. “Alone?”

“Clint couldn’t come, and I needed to de-stress,” she says, shrugging.

She walks past him and he can smell the alcohol on her—but she doesn’t seem too unsteady, and anyways, he has a question. “About this,” he says, waving the brochure, “what do you think?”

Halfway to her bedroom she turns around. “I think it’s an incredible chance,” she tells him, “I mean—just that you have the option at all. And… I think maybe you should think about it. If you’re still considering it after four months.”

She’s gone into her room before Bucky can protest that that wasn’t what he meant. “Night,” he says to her closed door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for alcohol.

Two days later he sits in Sam’s office and fiddles with the corner of the leaflet. Runs his fingers over where Sam’s pen made indents in the shiny paper. “I was thinking,” he says, without knowing exactly what, and then switches gears at the last moment. “I’ve been keeping track of my dreams, like we talked about.” He breathes out. He wishes he’d stuck to his guns, but they might as well talk about this, too. “I figured out that I’m not just—scared.”

When he pauses for so long that he starts to hear the clock ticking, Sam leans forward. “Do you have an example that might make it easier to find words?”

“Well, I am scared, that’s the thing,” Bucky bursts out, frustrated. “Like, I had—again, I dreamed I was running, I get that one a lot—but this time I wasn’t running anymore, I had actually made it and I knew I was safe, but I was still scared. I was sitting in my own apartment and I was just petrified. But no one was there, no threat or anything.”

“In your own apartment,” Sam repeats.

“Yeah, totally normal. But I felt like—I was in trouble, or in danger, I don’t know. I couldn’t figure out how to make it safe. I just had to sit there and—” He stops, feeling his throat grow tight with remembered panic. It had been worse that way, without any face to put to the fear.

“Was there anything other than fear?”

Bucky nods. “I was—I’m not sure. Sad, maybe.” He recalls the pricking of his eyes, waking up with wet cheeks. “That’s in other dreams, too. I don’t know why.”

Sam waits a while, until Bucky’s made it clear he’s not going to say anything else, and then says, “Often, recovering from trauma can resemble a grieving process.”

This is nothing new to Bucky; Sam’s not even the first person to suggest it. “I know.” He bites his lip, unwilling. “I just—I didn’t _die,_ I fucking—survived, you know? Why would I be grieving for myself?”

“Maybe not for yourself, precisely,” Sam proposes. “But for your life. The way it was.”

The sound of it in Sam’s matter-of-fact voice hurts so bad that Bucky figures he’s got to be at least partially right. But he rebels against the pain, stubborn. “Maybe,” he allows. “I don’t think I—” He stops and clears his throat, unable to think of a way to change the subject. It doesn’t matter; Sam waits for him. He holds up the pamphlet and starts again. “I think I want some more information about this stuff.”

“I could give you a number to call,” Sam offers evenly, accepting the new topic. “Or an email address, if that’s easier.”

Both options make Bucky balk.

Into his silence, Sam says, “Is there anything in particular that’s prompting you to bring this up again?”

Bucky shrugs, holds up the leaflet. “Steve saw this the other day and I—I guess I’ve been having second thoughts.”

“In what direction?” Sam asks, then follows it up immediately: “What were your first thoughts?”

And here’s the thing: they have talked, at length, about most of Bucky’s messy feelings after telling Steve the story of his trauma—Sam’s words—to the extent that Bucky is pretty sure he’s done the right thing, maybe even a little proud that he got through it after so long avoiding confrontation with the facts and ignoring the skewed self-perception that built up as a result—again, Sam’s words. They’ve hashed it out pretty thoroughly. Bucky thinks he sees a difference in the way he’s thinking now: less fear, more uncertainty.

“At first,” he says, “I didn’t think about it at all. I—just couldn’t. Like I was running up against a wall in my head.” He meets Sam’s gaze and knows he’ll have to get more specific than that. Emotions, that’s what they do. “Pure panic. I was afraid to consider anything to do with the arm—any of it, really.”

Sam makes a note. “And now?”

“Now I—” Unbidden, half a smile pulls at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “I mean, there’s like four or five people now who I can use two hands around. And I—I still don’t like it, but I don’t jump out of my skin every time someone looks at me below the elbow.” He tilts his head. “Still not wearing short sleeves, I suppose, but it’s almost winter.”

“You say you’re not reacting so negatively anymore—how _are_ you reacting? What do you feel when you think about your left arm?”

For this one, Bucky actually has an answer ready. “I think of it like an ugly glove most of the time. Like, ugh, that’s there, but I guess I can’t do anything about it.” Sam gazes at him, waiting, until he fills in the rest of the sentence: “But I could do something, if I wanted.”

“If you wanted,” Sam repeats.

“I don’t know if I want to, though,” Bucky says. He wonders if Sam will tell him to journal about this one, too. “So I think—yeah, the email address would be nice. To help figure it out.”

He leaves with the address scribbled on a sticky note, but, true to form, puts it away when he gets back to the apartment without even drafting an email. When he does, he feels a twinge of guilt. Bucky figures that means he’s growing as a person or something.

—

The days turn cold in earnest now. “I got a new coat,” Steve tells him. “Want to go to the park?”

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks, then grimaces at the withering look Steve gives him. “Listen, if Peggy’s not around to knock some sense into you—”

“—Then maybe I can be trusted to survive the winter on my own,” Steve finishes dryly. “Shut up if you know what’s good for you and let’s go.”

It feels almost like he’s stepped a year back in time—wearing a puffy coat and gloves, Bucky looks, he knows, completely normal. Beside him, bulked up in an equally bulging coat, Steve is still a whole head shorter. He’s also wearing a scarf and hat with a pom-pom on top. “I can’t kiss you in that getup,” Bucky complains as they walk into the park.

“You can if you try hard enough,” Steve informs him, and his voice is muffled by the scarf but it’s clear that he’s grinning. “This is how I preserve my high standards. And my dignity.”

“A real modern-day chastity belt, sure.”

Steve grabs his gloved hand, swings both of their arms. They’re not the only ones in the park; on the path ahead of them a woman is walking her dog, and there are some kids giggling and running around off to their left. “Did you say a few times that you have a sister?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, surprised that he remembers and also that he’s bringing it up. “Rebecca. Lives in Connecticut.”

“What does she do?”

“Engineering.” Becs has always, always been smarter than him—which he figures is why he got out of there as soon as he could after coming back. Too many good ideas that he just couldn’t face. “She’s like me with the car work,” Bucky adds, “except she actually knows what she’s doing. Got a master’s degree and everything.”

Steve looks up at him. “Are you gonna see her for Thanksgiving?”

Bucky hesitates. “Didn’t last year,” he says uncomfortably. Then, because he can feel Steve’s eyes, he adds, “Probably should, though.”

“No pressure,” Steve says, too late and somewhat unconvincingly. “I was just thinking it would be kind of nice to meet her. Since you hardly ever talk about her.”

“Well, what about your family?” Bucky challenges. “Grandparents or cousins or whatever. You never talk about them either.”

Steve snorts. “You’ve met my family,” he says. “They’re all on my payroll.”

“Yikes,” Bucky offers.

“Aw, it’s not so bad. I’m not even the youngest. Tony’s gonna take care of me in my old age.”

“That is a patently bad idea.”

The sound of Steve’s laughter rings out over the frosty grass, hangs like bells in the air. He coughs on the tail end. “Unless you’re volunteering to take over, I don’t have many other options.”

It’s clearly meant as a joke, but it shuts Bucky up for a moment. His imagination zooms ahead and flashes him a picture of Steve’s face all wrinkled and smiley, blonde hair turned silver-white, eyes still clear blue. Something shivers deep down into his bones.

The silence that follows feels perfectly natural: they cut between paths and listen to the crunching under their feet and above them the mostly-leafless trees stretch up spindly fingers to the blank white sky. It’s not a big park, but it feels like a different world. Steve subtly steers them towards a bench and Bucky follows. They sit with their legs pressed together.

“Hey,” Steve says suddenly, “I had a question. It’s kind of unusual.”

Bucky loosens his scarf. “Never stopped you before.”

“Well, you always answer,” Steve points out. “No, I was thinking, would you ever consider taking an art class?”

“What?”

“Just wondering.”

“Well, I—” Bucky gives up on trying to figure out which angle Steve is coming from and just answers him. “Maybe, I guess. I’ve never thought much about it. It’s more for talented people like you, right?” He bumps his shoulder into Steve’s.

“See, it’s that kind of attitude that an art class would fix.” Steve must see the doubt on his face, because he keeps talking in a rush. “It’s not like you’d have to be the next Picasso or something, I mean, you could do photography or watercolors or whatever you wanted. I was just thinking about it the other day—well, for a while now. Because you said you were having trouble figuring things out with journaling,” he continues quieter, “so it just kind of seemed like another option.”

Bucky thinks carefully about how to say what’s in his mind. “You know I don’t have anything against art,” he says, “I mean, at least I hope you know that by now. And—I guess it could be a good idea? At least as a possibility? But I really don’t know the first thing about it. Like, any art at all. Watercolor, sculpture, fuckin’ mosaics. I feel like I’d have to get a lot better before I could express anything worthwhile.”

Unexpectedly, Steve chuckles again at that. “You might be surprised.” But then he relents and says, “It was just an idea. Anyways, you don’t need talent for it to be therapeutic. And you don’t need a class to be creative.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just sit down sometime,” Steve says. “With a pencil. Draw something. That’s how everyone starts.”

Bucky frowns at him. “You trying to turn me into an artist, Rogers?”

“Maybe.” Steve grins. “I bet you ten bucks that you’ll have your own portfolio by this time next year.”

“Huh.” Shifting toward him on the bench, Bucky shakes his head. “Keep trying.” He means to bluster on about something inane, but his voice falters at the pink in Steve’s cheeks, the brightness of his eyes.

Steve does a double-take when he doesn’t look away. “What?”

“Nothing.” Bucky reaches out and tucks Steve’s scarf in around his chin. “Just feeling lucky.”

“God.” Steve rolls his eyes. “You sap.” But he’s smiling, pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to do it so big.

“If I’m a sap, I learned it from you,” Bucky informs him. “Stupid sunshine-loving loser.”

Through his sudden coughing fit, Steve is laughing again.

—

It turns out to be the last time they see each other for a week and a half outside of a few stolen minutes here and there, because Steve has meetings and PT appointments and Bucky has work and on top of it all he can’t rid himself of the preoccupation of the little sticky note shoved into the front cover of his journal. He sees it every day, with the result that he ends up staring into space hours later, thinking of nothing so much as a gaping possibility. He isn’t sure if he’s afraid of it or not.

It’s in the middle of one of these sessions of trying (and failing) not to think about the issue that Bucky’s phone rings. He puts down his sandwich and sees with surprise that it’s Natasha calling. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey, Barnes,” she replies. “Are you at work?”

Bucky frowns. “Yeah.” He’s confused; it’s her day off, but she knows when he works. “Why?”

“Just checking.” She sounds distracted. “And you get off at four?”

“What’s going on?” he asks, earning a curious look from Bruce, who’s nursing his tea across the break room table.

“Well, don’t freak out,” Natasha says, “but I’m calling from the hospital.”

“The hospital?” Bucky repeats, at least managing to keep an even tone. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, “I’m fine—everyone’s fine, really, but Steve—kind of collapsed at the gallery? I swear he’s okay,” she continues quickly, clearly aware that Bucky is indeed starting to freak out. “Honestly, he’s all right. But Clint and I brought him to the hospital and they want to keep him in for observation and stuff. I wouldn’t even have told you about it until after work, but he made me promise to call you and tell you not to worry. Which I know you’re doing anyways,” she adds.

“Hell yeah, I’m worrying,” Bucky says. “Why wouldn’t you have told me, Natasha, what the fuck?”

“Because he’s fine,” Natasha insists. “He—look, he just started coughing and then when he got up he passed out. But he came to after about ten seconds, and he was conscious the whole way to the hospital and everything. The only reason he’s not the one calling you himself is because they’re running tests right now.”

“Which hospital is he at?” Bucky demands. He waves a hand at Bruce, who looks concerned.

“Don’t cancel your shift,” Natasha says warningly. “Just work the afternoon—you can visit him when you’re done.”

“Just tell me.” Bucky sighs. “Please, Romanoff.”

“Fine, hang on.”

She’s silent for a moment, and then Clint’s voice is in his ear. “It’s Interfaith Medical Center, Bucky. On Atlantic.”

“Yeah, I know that one.”

“Natasha’s telling the truth,” Clint says after a second of silence. “Steve really is gonna be fine. This has happened before."

“Let me guess,” Bucky says, “you want me to stay where I am, too?”

“There’s just not much point in anything else,” Clint tells him. “They’ll be talking to him for a while still anyways. You couldn’t visit him even if you came over right now.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says, making a face. “Fine. I guess.”

Clint pauses. “Nat says she’ll text you if anything changes. But nothing will.”

When Bucky hangs up, Bruce raises his eyebrows. “Do you need to go?”

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Nah. My boyfriend is—under observation,” he says carefully, “but he’s okay.” He tries to make himself believe it.

“You sure?” Bruce presses.

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, “he’s fine.” And he forces himself to finish his sandwich. Nobody texts him for the rest of the afternoon, and he does such a good job pretending not to be worried that Bruce asks him to help carry in a few big bags of road salt to the storage room.

It lets him work off some of the nerves, but by the time he arrives at the hospital Bucky’s jittery again. He gets the room number at the desk and stops when he finds the right hallway. Sure enough, someone’s sitting in a chair outside the door. But it’s not Natasha or Clint—it’s Peggy. “Hi,” she says, getting up and smiling when he approaches. It looks a little strained. “Are you doing all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, somewhat impatiently, not even sure if it’s completely true anymore. “Are you—is Steve—?”

“He’s sleeping,” Peggy tells him. “Perfectly normal. He had blood drawn, and hospitals always exhaust him anyways.”

Bucky nods, suddenly aware that she must have done this several times before—waiting, monitoring, worrying. “Did Natasha go home?” he asks, wondering why she didn’t text him or—

“No,” Peggy says, “she and Clint are just getting something to drink. And actually,”—she checks her watch—“I’ve got to go take over Tony’s shift right about now. I only stayed to make sure there was someone around when you got here—so I think I’ll go now, if you’re really all right?”

“Uh—sure,” Bucky says, taken aback at her bluntness, “yeah, totally.”

“All right, then.” Peggy gives him a little wave and brushes past him, not rudely.

And then Bucky’s alone in the hall, feeling slightly out-of-place as he usually does around Peggy in all her cool collectedness. Trying to shake it off, he deliberates for a moment and then gently pushes open the door into Steve’s room. It’s small, but there are two beds; Steve is in the one by the window, and the other is empty.

Coming closer, Bucky sees that Steve is indeed sleeping, wearing a thin hospital gown barely visible above the covers that are pulled practically up to his chin. His hand sticks out from the blanket, but Bucky doesn’t want to hold it—not that he would, afraid of waking him—because of the oximeter clipped to his fingertip.

So he just stands there, which is a little awkward despite the fact that Steve doesn’t know he’s doing it. Not in a creepy way—although he guesses might kind of be creepy—but more in the sense that he doesn’t have anything to do with his hands, and they feel empty, useless. He looks around the room, which is bit cramped and filled with a steady beeping. It’s all in a dusky blue color. Everything is clearly designed to be calming—and honestly, Bucky does feel better, being in the same room as Steve. Enough to also feel a little embarrassed, able to see that there really was nothing to worry about.

There’s not enough room to pull up a chair by the bed without making a little noise, so Bucky goes and takes Peggy’s seat in the hallway. After only a minute or two he looks up from his anxiously tapping feet to find Natasha and Clint walking towards him. “How long were you waiting?” Natasha asks him.

“Not long,” Bucky replies. “Peggy had to go—”

“Yeah, she said.” Clint holds up his phone.

“Oh, cool.” Which is not particularly helpful. Bucky finds it hard to meet Natasha’s eyes and can’t help feeling that he was too harsh when she called, but it seems embarrassing to apologize in front of Clint and anyways he senses a gap between them that’s never been there before—something that’s been widening for weeks, maybe, but that he’s only just noticed. “So,” he says, “uh, what happened?”

Clint, too, glances at Natasha. “Basically just what you already know,” he says when she stays silent. “We were all talking, and then Steve started coughing—I mean, he’d been kind of wheezy for a while, right?” Bucky nods, though he hasn’t seen Steve recently enough to know it at all. “Yeah, and so he started really coughing, though, and then he drank some water and it seemed okay, but then he got up and like—I don’t know, grabbed the desk and blacked out.” Clint pales a little as he says it. “But he was fine, I mean, he woke up right away. It knocked a little sense into him, though,” he adds with half a smile. “He didn’t even fight us when we said he should go to the hospital.”

“You drove him?” Bucky checks. When Clint nods, he has to reckon with the wave of relief that follows, along with a whisper of horrified guilt at the thought of what might have happened had no one else been there—or if it had been only Bucky, and they’d had to take the subway.

“It was really fast,” Clint says, providing a welcome if unintentional distraction. “Scary, but—well, it could’ve been a lot worse.” He shrugs uncomfortably, then bursts out, “Goddammit, I hate hospitals.”

It’s an unexpected admission from him, and so sudden and full of conviction that Bucky is a little concerned, but Natasha gives a low chuckle, and Bucky knows why. He doesn’t like these places much either. Too sterile, sharp-smelling. But he’s mostly okay as long as he’s not the focus of all those shiny instruments and bright lights. He realizes a second too late that Natasha is looking at him meaningfully and meets her gaze just as she looks away. Again, he feels a pull to apologize.

They talk about nothing for a while, having come to some unspoken agreement to ignore the weird bad energy between them. After half an hour a nurse comes by, and she’s reassuring in a way that ultimately just makes Bucky exhausted. He ends up dozing off with his head against the wall and wakes up to Clint saying his name. “Steve’s awake.”

Steve reaches out a hand to him as soon as he walks into the room. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “How was your day?”

It’s absurd, and Bucky laughs, taking the seat that Clint must have brought in before. He can hear Natasha talking in the hallway behind him. “Better than yours, I bet.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Steve allows. “I’ve had worse, though.”

Bucky snorts. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

At his tone, Steve frowns, peering at him with a furrowed brow. “Aw,” he says, “you worried, didn’t you?”

Bucky considers lying, but he knows Steve wouldn’t believe him, though he might play along out of kindness. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Steve raises Bucky’s hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “Me too.”

His lips are dry, his skin cool. “What—what are you all talking about,” he asks, as delicate as he can be, “saying you’ve had worse? Because, I mean—sure, you’re talking and all, but you _collapsed—”_

Steve holds his hand more tightly. “I collapse every few months, just about.”

“I’ve known you for over half a year. Why haven’t I seen it?”

“’Cause you don’t live or work with me.” Steve’s tone is matter-of-fact, but his eyes are gentle, even beyond the sleep still clouding his face. “Okay, I don’t usually pass out, but I’ve been known to overdo it, and if there’s not a chair handy…” He taps his thumb against the back of Bucky’s hand. “You get used to it.”

Bucky clears his throat in disbelief.

“Or you just get on with your life,” Steve allows. “You stop railing against it.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Bucky argues. “Aren’t you supposed to—I don’t know, rage, rage, against the dying of the light?”

Steve’s laugh brightens the drab room, though a rasping cough sneaks in at the end. “You think my light’s dying anytime soon?” he demands.

Looking at him sitting there, gaze flashing and shoulders set beneath the thin fabric of his gown, Bucky has to admit that he seems full of life. “You could be a little more careful,” he tries.

“A little more—I’ll show you careful,” Steve says. “Or I would, if I wasn’t afraid of flashing you. But you wait till I get out of here.”

“I’m quaking in my boots,” Bucky assures him, smiling despite himself.

They don’t talk long, because the nurse comes back to run more tests. When Bucky comes out of the room, it’s only Natasha waiting for him. “Did you eat dinner?” she asks, and when Bucky shakes his head, she says tersely, “Well, let’s get a move on, then.”

They walk down the street to a Romanian restaurant and get a table in the corner. Bucky waits until their ciorbă has arrived before finally saying, “I’m sorry for how I was on the phone.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly. “But I get it, you know. You were upset.”

“Yeah, but—I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that. You were—I mean, you were right, obviously, and—I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” she says again, but this time she meets his eyes. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.”

“If I’ve got half a brain,” Bucky agrees.

“Well, maybe not, then,” she says, and takes a spoonful of soup.

It’s like normal after that—almost. They make jokes and Bucky promises to do all the vacuuming if Natasha deals with the mountain of dirty dishes that’s collecting in the sink back at the apartments. But he still feels that strange distance. “Are you doing okay?” he asks after a silence that becomes slightly awkward. “I mean, just in general?”

“What?” She puts her wineglass down. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I guess I just feel like we haven’t seen each other a lot lately. You’re never in the apartment. Well, I’m not there a lot either,” he admits.

“I’m there plenty,” she argues. “And didn’t all those doctors tell us for about five months straight that we had to get into the community? Interact with the world around us?”

Bucky nods. “Sam’s still telling me. So what have you been doing?”

“Well, ballet,” she says, ticking it off on one finger, “and I spend lots of time with Clint, and at work, and—I don’t know, Barnes, I do things.” Her spoon clatters in her empty bowl.

“Fair enough.” He supposes he spends a significant amount of time with Steve normally, too. Maybe he’s making mountains out of molehills. They walk home in the gathering darkness and watch a comedy sketch on TV that Bucky only half pays attention to, his thoughts miles away in the hospital room. At one point it springs into his mind to point out that Natasha _hasn’t_ actually been working that much—she missed another shift last week—but he looks over at her and sees that she’s nodding off. He lets her sleep, and pulls a blanket over her when he goes to bed.

—

He visits Steve again the next day and runs into the nurse, Sharon, on the way up. She goes the opposite direction when they step out of the elevator, and Bucky walks down Steve’s hall alone. He’s pleased to see that Steve’s awake this time.

“Thank God,” Steve says as soon as Bucky walks in, throwing his sketchbook onto the table by the bed. “You brought presents, right? To adorn my sickroom?”

“I brought my dazzling personality,” Bucky offers.

“Mm,” Steve says, pursing his lips, “no thanks. I need pudding. The good kind, from downstairs. Please?”

“That won’t work on me. I just talked to your nurse—you’re on a low-sodium diet.”

“What the hell, Sharon,” Steve says to the air. But he takes Bucky’s hand like yesterday and smiles.

“You’ve been on that diet for as long as I’ve known you,” Bucky points out, smiling back. “She also said,” he continues, “that most people with congestive heart failure are forty or older.”

Steve nods solemnly. “I’m an overachiever.”

Bucky snorts. “Seriously, though. Is it weird that you have this when you’re only twenty-six?”

“Not really,” Steve says. “With the arrhythmia and all. Oh, and I had rheumatic fever in third grade.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky says, “you’re a medical miracle.”

“I’m their worst nightmare,” Steve says, chuckling in apparent delight. “But, yeah, basically I’m one life-threatening thing piled on top of another.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand in anticipation of how badly this joke will be received.

“How did this happen, by the way?” Bucky asks, ignoring it, gesturing with a nod at the whole room. “What’s the official diagnosis?”

“Just the heart failure,” Steve says simply. “The asthma makes me dizzy, you know, and I didn’t think this was anything else.”

“Because you’ve been through it so many times,” Buck guesses.

Steve shrugs. “I figured the cough was just because of that and the cold.”

“Is there anything we can do to prevent it?” Bucky asks, then shakes his head. “I mean to keep it from getting worse?”

Steve makes a face. “They’ll let me know tomorrow, I think,” he says, “once all the tests come back. Gotta pinpoint the actual problem.”

“It scares me,” Bucky confesses, looking down at their fingers entwined. “I mean—I’m scared for you.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve starts.

“But it’s true,” Bucky protests. When he looks at Steve his heart seizes in his chest in some kind of horrible parody. “I keep thinking—if there weren’t a hospital so close to the gallery. Or if Clint and Natasha hadn’t been there.”

Looking down, Steve says, “I woke up right away. And I walked all the way here. I could’ve called someone.”

“But if you didn’t—”

Steve meets his gaze again, lips pressed together. “I’ve been living with this stuff for my whole life, Bucky. I know how to deal with it. Do you?”

“I—” Bucky pauses with his mouth open, searching for words, afraid of saying the wrong ones. “I’m trying to figure it out,” he says at last, looking into Steve’s eyes. “It’s new for me and I—I love you, Steve, so much—I can’t help worrying.”

It seems to take the fight out of Steve. His grip relaxes and he sits back against his pillow. “You and everyone else,” he says with a slightly bitter twist to his mouth. “Makes me nervous, you know?”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t want to upset Steve, but it’s the truth, and he doesn’t want Steve to have any illusions about how much he means to Bucky, even if Bucky himself isn’t quite sure how to navigate that yet. “I can be here tomorrow, if you want,” he offers. “For when you get the results.”

“You don’t have to do that, Buck.”

“If it would make you feel more comfortable,” Bucky explains, “then I would.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” Steve says very softly, “but I’ll be okay on my own.”

“He’s not okay,” Bucky insists the next day for the third time, having arrived in the evening to find Steve sound asleep and Peggy reading a book at his side. They’re seated in the cafeteria with two black coffees and Bucky can’t stop tapping his leg under the table. “He’s sick.”

Peggy gives him a sympathetic smile. “He’s been sick his whole life,” she reminds him, and he hears Steve’s words in hers. “I asked him once how he did it, you know. It was two years after we met and he could hardly stand up most days because of the fatigue. I asked him how he lived with the pain of it. You know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said he didn’t think he had the right to do anything else. That he had to use the gifts he had while he had them.” There’s a note of admiration in Peggy’s voice, but it’s overshadowed by a definite disapproval. “Steven has never known how to do things by halves. He certainly never learned how to set limits, how to stop when he’s ahead, and he’s not about to start for you. No matter how much he loves you.”

She doesn’t say it unkindly, but rather understandingly. In the fluorescent light her fingers wrap tightly around the plain white mug in front of her. Some of her hair has started to fray from the careful curls, and she sits hunched over the table as if the hour is much later than it actually is, but her eyes on his are alert. And in the moment Bucky can see why Steve fell in love with her. “It’s exhausting, though,” he says.

She laughs. “You’ll manage it, I’ve no doubt. We all do.”

“You sure about that?” Bucky asks. “I guess—it just seems a little impossible, on top of everything else.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Everyone else seems to have it together.”

At that, she scoffs. “Well, you clearly don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” She grins at him, but there’s still something reproachful in her gaze.

After an hour, when Steve hasn’t woken up, they both head home. Bucky comes back the next morning before his afternoon shift to see Steve drawing again. He looks up when Bucky walks in. “I thought you had work,” he says.

“Not until one,” Bucky says.

There’s a moment of hesitation before Steve smiles. “Nice of you to visit the invalid.”

Bucky frowns. “I’m visiting my _boyfriend._ Is something wrong?” He wonders if it has something to do with the test results.

Steve sighs deeply, and while it doesn’t turn into a cough, it only increases Bucky’s trepidation. “No,” he lies fairly obviously, “I just wasn’t expecting visitors.” A second later he meets Bucky’s eyes, and after a few moments of stasis, his mouth twists wryly. “And there’s a bit of a setback, with the gallery and the festival and all. But it’s fine.”

“A setback?” Bucky asks, glancing at the little whiteboard next to the door, but there’s nothing new there.

“It’s fine,” Steve repeats, and like yesterday Bucky wants to protest. Steve continues before he gets a chance. “The test results were—inconclusive. As in, they don’t know if things will get worse, or at least they can’t rule it out.”

Bucky waits for him to keep going. When he doesn’t, he prompts, as gently as he can, “So what does this have to do with the festival?”

“They want me to take a break,” Steve says, sounding very much like he’s trying to avoid grinding his teeth against the words. “Take time off from the gallery, or at least from all the extra stuff. To reduce stress, or whatever. Like they didn’t make me ten times more stressed by saying that. I can’t _take time off_ from it, it’s my _job.”_

“Well, shit,” Bucky says, “I’m so sorry.” He remembers Steve saying, once upon a time, _that’s some bad luck._ How true. He wants to show how much he means it, too, more than just words—but Steve’s still clutching his sketchbook and he doesn’t want to take that away, so he settles for a deep sigh. “It’s a setback,” he agrees. “It’s gotta be really disappointing.”

Steve shifts and makes a face. “I mean, it’s not that big a deal,” he says. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.” He grins at Bucky and flips the sketchbook around. “Look, I was talking to Sharon before you got here and the light from the window came in just right, see—”

“It’s nice,” Bucky says. “Listen, we could probably—”

“You didn’t even look at it,” Steve accuses.

He’s right. Bucky flushes and directs his eyes to the page, where he sees a rough sketch of Sharon, apparently rolling her eyes, her scrubs barely hinted at but still clearly delineating the way she’s standing with her hands on her hips. If there’s one thing Steve’s good at, Bucky reflects, remembering his own portrait sitting months ago, it’s the posture. That and the eyes. “She doesn’t look happy with you,” Bucky observes.

“She thinks I’m going to rush myself into an untimely grave,” Steve says with a dark edge to his smile. “I told her my body’s doing that for me. Then she made this face.” He points at the page with the eraser of his pencil.

“Looks familiar,” Bucky says. He takes the book from Steve, looks more closely. “You really got it,” he says, though he’s only interacted with Sharon for a total of twenty minutes. “And—I see what you mean about the lighting,” he adds.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bucky suppresses a smirk, aware that Steve’s preening a little. “It makes her—she seems like she’s glowing,” he attempts with his unwieldy and inadequate vocabulary, “when did you see this, right around dawn?”

“Woke up early, yeah,” Steve says. “Good eye.”

“Thanks.” Bucky hands the book back, not sure what else to say, and looks at him there, propped up among three different pillows. The sun filling the room now is pale with a hint of winter bleakness, but it lights Steve up just the same, and it hurts, somehow. In a way that Bucky didn’t know before, a good hurt. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say more—to help somehow, more than just talking about art.

Steve lets the sketchbook lay closed on top of the covers and reaches for Bucky’s hand again. As always, Bucky is momentarily surprised by how tightly he can grab, considering how damn skinny his arm is. And Steve’s looking back at him, only a small smile playing around his mouth. His eyes are tired, searching, soft. “I want to love you so long,” he says, and it sounds like a promise. Like an absolution. “Till we’re so old we don’t need to talk anymore, and we both just know.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/143551898@N08/45631525971/in/dateposted-public/)

—

Steve leaves the hospital two days later, and it’s another week before Bucky turns to him across the desk at the gallery and asks, “So, what does it take to engineer this art festival, exactly?”

A beat passes before Steve spins around in his chair. “Why?” he asks, his face rearranging itself quickly into the scowl he’s worn at every mention of the topic since the inconclusive test results.

“Well, I just thought—” Bucky frowns, flipping a spare pen over in his hands, watching the double flash of metal. “You’re not supposed to be overexerting yourself, but you can’t afford to slow it down, and—I guess I just thought, I only work part-time, and I’m sure everyone else would help—”

“Oh, Bucky, no,” Steve says, sounding pained. “Everyone already does so much—”

“Just me, then,” Bucky insists. “I’ve got the time and I want to help.” He pulls the scratch notebook toward himself and flips to a new page, pen poised. “What do we need to do, rearrange the space, call people, what? I’ll do anything that doesn’t require cars.”

Steve pauses, looking like he’s trying to think of a way to argue, but his mouth is already pulling up on one side and Bucky thinks that means he’s won. “Don’t go roping the others into this,” he says, pointing imperiously. “This isn’t permission to go wild—God knows Tony and Clint have been grilling me for details for months—” He sighs. “If I give you some numbers,” he says, “um, nothing technical or requiring expertise or anything—just follow-ups about space and venues and stuff—”

Bucky laughs. “You don’t have to convince me,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

And he does, surprising even himself—but he’s proud, too, of the fact that he can help, that he can do this. Something more. It feels like gardening, but he’s not sure what he’s growing.

—

The offer of help brings some optimism to the situation, enough that Steve goes back to working on his mysterious art project as soon as he finishes catching up from his absence. He’s even more secretive about it now than before, coming out to talk to Bucky in the hallway rather than let him into the room with the mysterious covered object.

“It’s not really that I want you to give away the surprise,” Bucky says, “I just—it’s killing me, Stevie, it’s like a little kid right before Christmas. I’m just so _curious.”_

Steve, busy disentangling his earbuds, snorts. “What could you even want to know that wouldn’t give it away?”

Bucky looks up at him upside-down. “The inspiration behind it, maybe?”

“Mm, no,” Steve says. “That’d be too revealing, for sure.”

“What, am I your muse?” Bucky teases. “That’s so cliché, Steve—”

“You only get half-credit,” Steve says, tapping him on the nose.

“I’ll take it.” Bucky sighs. “Okay, something else… I mean, is it humanoid? Can you tell me that much?”

“Sure,” Steve says, “yeah, it’s a person—fuck, come on!” He shakes the earbuds, as if that will disentangle them.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky takes them from him and starts working out the knot himself. “Patience is a virtue.”

“One that I don’t have,” Steve says, and puts his hand over Bucky’s and the tangle. “Can I kiss you?”

“Please.”

The angle is awkward, with Bucky’s head literally in Steve’s lap, so that they both wind up giggling after a few seconds. “I’m gonna put my tongue up your nose accidentally if you don’t hold still,” Steve complains, sitting back.

“You’re telling me!” Bucky pulls futilely on the cords, but the earbuds are well and truly snarled. “Yeah, all right, whatever,” he says, and tosses them onto the coffee table. “C’mere.” He pulls Steve back down by the front of his shirt.

It’s remarkable, he thinks vaguely, that this is even remotely appealing to him—because Steve’s right, they’re putting their faces in very risky positions, yet it’s warm and soft and good, with the music playing from the upstairs neighbors and the scent of Steve’s shampoo a sweet perfume. “I love you,” he says.

“Love you too,” Steve murmurs back, smiling. His hands come up to frame Bucky’s face, resting lightly on the skin. “Took us a while to get here, huh?”

“Worth it, though.” Steve’s fingertips pass over his cheeks, lacing the underside of his jaw, and Bucky sucks in a breath without meaning to.

Steve pauses at once. “Did I—”

“It’s all good,” Bucky assures him, and this time he knows it’s the truth. Just a moment of surprise. He stretches up to touch his lips to Steve’s again.

A minute later, though, Steve pulls away once more. “Are you sure?” he asks. “You seem—distracted.”

Bucky flushes, opening his eyes to see Steve looking down at him with concern. “I got reminded of something,” he admits, “but it wasn’t anything upsetting, really, not like that.”

“Reminded of what?” Steve asks, fingers playing with the hair around Bucky’s ears.

“A dream I had,” Bucky says. “Few nights ago. I was at the community center, on the roof, working in the garden, and the plants around me were alive. It was really strange.”

“Plants are usually alive,” Steve points out.

“No, I mean—they were moving around like they could think or something. Freaked me out,” Bucky admits, remembering. “And you were there,” he adds.

“Me?” Steve snorts. “And how did kissing remind you about this dream?”

“It wasn’t that,” Bucky says, and he tries to keep his tone light, but there’s an invisible weight on his chest as it comes back to him. He’d written it down in his journal and promptly forgotten—but it feels very real suddenly. He shifts backward and pulls himself upright slightly, so that Steve’s holding him to his chest. “The plants were wrapping around me and pulling me down to the dirt. It was getting in my mouth.”

“Yikes,” Steve says into his hair.

“Yeah, well. I woke up with my blankets as tight as a straightjacket.”

“Was that it?” Steve asks. “I mean, what was I doing? Were they getting me too?”

Bucky shakes his head. “They weren’t touching you. You didn’t move at all.”

“I just stood there and watched?” Steve demands, sounding indignant.

“You didn’t know,” Bucky assures him, leaning his head back, turning his face so his cheek rests against Steve’s shoulder. “You were—I don’t know, admiring the view? I don’t remember.” He wishes he could see Steve’s expression, but he’s glad that Steve can’t see his. He can almost taste the soil again, wet and gritty. He remembers—fear. Not that strange sadness he’d felt at other times, just hot panic, but—he’s not sure—he doesn’t think it was because of the vines, exactly.

Steve breaks in on his introspection. “It was definitely a dream,” he says. “If I’d really been there, I would’ve noticed right away.”

Bucky smiles, trying to let the memory wash off him. He takes comfort in the fact that at least this time the dream was firmly situated in the here and now: no snow, no mountains. “I know.”

“And I would’ve fought ‘em for you.” His arms tighten momentarily around Bucky.

“You’re, like, five feet tall,” Bucky teases.

“Just means I’m closer to my center of gravity.” Steve pokes him in the back of the head. “And if you care, you’re half-crushing me right now, you’re like the Incredible Hulk.”

“I work out,” Bucky says, and slips out of Steve’s arms. He pours himself a cup of water in the kitchen; his mouth is dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for alcohol.

“Barnes,” Natasha calls, “you got a minute?”

Bucky shuts his notebook with relief. “Hang on!” He shoves it back into the drawer and deletes the email draft, breathing out slowly. “What’s up?” he asks, coming out into the kitchen, only to pull up short when he sees Natasha up to her elbows in flour.

“Can you check the recipe?” she asks, nodding at a book on the counter. “Page 80, it fell closed. And I’m, well, I don’t want to touch the book.”

Bemused, Bucky flips to the right page. “Why are you making bread?”

“Thanksgiving’s coming up,” she says with a shrug. “Gotta make something.”

“I didn’t think you cooked much,” he says.

She presses her lips together. “I don’t. It’s Clint’s idea. And it’s”—she blows a strand of hair out of her eyes—“pretty fucking inconvenient. I’d rather just go to the store, it’d probably taste better. Anyways.” She inclines her head at the book. “Does it say when I should add the raisins?”

“Uh—no, I don’t think so. The step before raisins says to knead it ‘until a soft dough forms’—I mean, is it soft?”

“It’s sticky,” she says. “Is it supposed to be sticky?”

“Maybe more flour?”

“Maybe.” She dips a hand into the bag of flour and sprinkles more on the counter, then pounds the dough into it. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing,” she tells Bucky.

He frowns. “Then why _don’t_ you just buy some?”

“Because it’s Thanksgiving,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “That’s what you do, right? Home-baked goods, big meals, the real deal?”

It gives Bucky pause. His family was never really big on the holiday, preferring to treat it like any other long weekend: late breakfasts, movie marathons. When he was on his own, it often slipped right by without much notice—people need their cars fixed on Thanksgiving as much as any other day—and now he just feels plain out of practice. “I guess I don’t know,” he admits.

“Well, I got this far.” She gives him a sidelong half-smile. “You wanna measure the raisins?”

So he does, grateful she didn’t ask him to take over kneading; he’s pretty sure the dough wouldn’t mix well with all the grooves in his left arm. “Are you a Thanksgiving fan?” he asks, shaking raisins into a measuring cup.

“Sure, if there’s people to celebrate with.”

“So—just Clint, or—?”

She shrugs. “I think we’re going to his mom’s. I don’t really know. I said I’d go because I just—it should be fun.”

The end of the sentence falls flat, and Bucky’s pretty sure she meant to say something else, but he doesn’t know how to ask without sounding like a nosy jerk. “What about when you were a kid?” he asks instead.

“Turkey and pumpkin pie,” she says.

Again, something in her voice gives Bucky pause. Not quite snappy, but—unwilling. He sets the cup of raisins down beside her and turns back to the book, wondering if she’s angry, wondering if it’s possibly at him. But he can’t remember anything happening between them—they’ve barely spoken in the past few weeks, bumping around on opposite schedules, exchanging just a few words on the way in or out. He remembers how she brushed off his attempts to address it while Steve was in the hospital and feels a twinge of helplessness. “We should do something fun soon,” he suggests vaguely. “Got any plans after Thanksgiving?”

He feels rather than sees her glance at him. “Not really. What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner and a movie?” he suggests, smirking. “Or we could do another one of those spa weekends, you remember those—”

“Like old times,” she says, and groans.

He laughs. There’s still half a jar of coconut oil somewhere, left over from all the days in the early months when they were both sick of their daily routine, but neither of them could bear the thought of going anywhere with a crowd. “It could be fun,” he says.

“It could be a nightmare.” She dumps the raisins onto the counter and starts kneading the dough into it. “Why do you want to relive that stuff?”

Taken aback, Bucky brings the flour-y measuring cup over to the sink in silence. “It doesn’t have to be anything like that,” he says at last over the sound of the running water. “We can do something new. Whatever you want.”

—

He tries not to be concerned, after that, at how Natasha is practically pulling away, but it’s hard: almost as hard as being actively concerned. He can’t even broach the subject without getting an indirect yet unmistakable snub. He sees her with Clint around the gallery, though, the day before Thanksgiving, and she’s smiling, humming along to the music. He wonders if it’s him.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” he asks Steve. “Is the gallery gonna be open?”

“It’s a national holiday,” Steve says, blinking. “I’m closing up shop and getting some real work done.”

“Gee.” Bucky kicks Steve’s chair and sends him rolling a few inches away from the desk. “Pretty sad for a guy who started his own business.”

“To send life into the depths of the human heart is the artist’s calling,” Steve quotes at him, raising one eyebrow.

“So you’re gonna work on your sculpture?”

Steve gives Bucky a knowing look. “You can come if you want. Might even let you see it.”

Which is how Bucky ends up spending Thanksgiving afternoon on the floor of the studio, Jarvis purring on his lap. He’s under strict instructions not to look behind the dented filing cabinet against which he’s leaning until given explicit permission, so he stares at the wall and drinks his coffee. “What are you doing?” he demands, unable to help it when he hears an awful scraping noise like nails on a chalkboard.

“It’s this ladder,” Steve huffs. “This thing is so—damn—big—”

“I could help out, you know, if you…”

“Nice try.” The ladder clatters loudly. “It’s just a lot of climbing up and down, lots of tricky angles. But it’s working.”

The curiosity is, frankly, eating Bucky alive, but he refrains from pressing the issue. Jarvis arches his back against Bucky’s hand and then throws himself onto the ground, batting at the metal thumb. “We should get a cat,” Bucky says, and it’s only when Steve doesn’t respond that he realizes exactly what came out of his mouth. _We._ He opens his mouth but can’t think of what to say, not sure whether he should amend it or apologize or—

“You think?” Steve says, suddenly close. Bucky looks up and he’s there, hands dusty, looking down at Bucky with a crooked smile. “You like him?”

“I, uh—” Bucky can feel his cheeks burning and it’s ridiculous, all the more so because Steve doesn’t seem to think anything of it. As if he’d already thought of it as _we,_ as if it had never been anything else. “I love him,” he confesses, “but I don’t know many other cats, so—”

“Well, that doesn’t matter too much,” Steve says, crouching down next to him and holding out a chalky finger for Jarvis to sniff. “There’s a cat out there for you, no question.” He snorts. “But don’t let Tony know or he’ll think you’re trying to steal this one.”

“Or maybe a dog,” Bucky muses.

“A big malamute, yeah—”

“Mm, I thought maybe a lap dog.”

“With little bows, or—?”

“Definitely.”

Steve grins. “How about all three? Two dogs and a cat.”

“Sounds great,” Bucky chuckles. “Though I don’t know if there’s enough room for that in my apartment.”

“Oh, no, probably not in mine either,” Steve says dismissively. “We’ll find somewhere with space.”

Something warm blossoms in Bucky’s chest. He opens his mouth, doesn’t want to spoil it. “I’d like that.”

Steve glances at him as if he knows. “Me, too.”

“Someplace with big windows.” Because when he thinks of Steve he thinks of sunlight.

“So,” Steve says, now grinning, “you wanna see it?”

Bucky comes back to earth with a jolt, but it’s not bad. “You mean it?” he asks.

Steve knocks their shoulders together. “Hell yeah. Just don’t be too hard on it, it’s not finished yet.”

Bucky gets to his feet and pulls Steve up after him, then steps around the filing cabinet to see—a sculpture, about three times Bucky’s height, much taller than he remembers it being when Steve had him push it across the room. It’s recognizably human-shaped, towering above the two of them in the middle of a sizeable pile of shavings. A little rugged, still, but powerful and impressively evocative. And all in white, at least for now.

“It’s not finished,” Steve repeats.

He sounds anxious, and Bucky shakes his head. “It’s kind of amazing already,” he admits, struck by the size of it. As he walks slowly around it, he resists the urge to reach out and touch it, a little rough-hewn but with a remarkably smooth-looking surface. The pose is the most interesting thing about it—not quite tense, not quite relaxed. Feet apart, arms hanging, hands alive. “You know,” he says, “you could do something with this. Something big.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Bigger than it already is? I don’t know if they make ladders that tall.”

“No, you know what I mean,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “I already knew you were talented—come on, of course I did,” he adds as Steve blushes, “but you could go places.”

With a doubtful expression, Steve says, “You mean, like, get famous?”

“If you wanted to, yeah. If this is what you can do in this little studio, not even finished, just think what you could—”

“But I like this studio,” Steve interrupts. “I practically built it.”

“No, I know,” Bucky assures him. “I didn’t mean it was bad or anything. I just—I was thinking, people would really love it if they could see it.”

Steve smiles. There’s a smear of plaster on his forehead. “That’s sweet,” he says. “But the most important person’s already seen it.”

—

Natasha appears to have taken his suggestion of an outing seriously. “I got us tickets,” she says, sliding a sheet of paper across the counter towards him on the twenty-seventh. “Hope you’ve got a suit.”

“Ballet?” He reads the details. “Shit, Romanoff, these are expensive.”

She shrugs. “It’s worth it. But if it makes you feel better, you can pay for dinner.”

“You know me too well.” He taps the paper. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen _The Nutcracker_ before. Isn’t it a Christmas show?”

“It’s an early showing,” she says. “Besides, after Thanksgiving I think it’s technically Christmas. And it’s Russian, so there.”

He snorts. “Go figure.”

It takes some doing to locate his suit, a creased and wrinkled number in a garment bag on the top shelf of his closet. He hasn’t worn it since the party Nick threw him for his honorable discharge—a nightmare of an evening, good intentions aside—and once he irons it out it smirks at him like a long-forgotten ghost. It hangs more loosely on him than he remembers.

“You look like a mobster,” Natasha says when she sees him leaning against the counter.

“Is it the hair?” he asks, flipping it ostentatiously. “No one’s had it this long since seventy-nine, I know. Or greased it at all since twenty-nine.”

“A classy mobster,” she allows. “Probably from St. Petersburg. I should’ve worn my mink, we could match.” She affixes an earring and grins at him. “So where are we getting dinner?”

 _“Not_ from St. Petersburg,” he tells her. “I think you’ll like it, though.” She’s got her coat on. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing to the door and doffing an imaginary hat.

“Watch it,” she says, gives him the middle finger, and curtsies.

The restaurant is small, hidden away behind a parking garage, but the windows glow bright against the inky dark of the night. “Cracciola’s?” Natasha reads from the sign. “I wouldn’t’ve thought you’d go for Italian.”

“I’m multifaceted,” Bucky says loftily.

They sit at a table in the back, and the lights twinkle on Natasha’s deep blue dress. “Everyone is going to think we’re dating,” she complains, biting into a piece of garlic bread.

“Probably,” he agrees, and makes a face. It’s still nice, though—mostly, if he’s honest with himself, because it feels like it used to. No more distance between them, no more of that sour silence. He doesn’t even think anything’s changed, or at least he can’t remember either of them doing anything different, but it’s like someone hit a reset button.

Their food comes, and Bucky’s glad they’re sitting all the way in the back since it makes him feel better about using both hands to cut his bracciole. Their server passes by and he still nearly drops his fork.

“No one’s looking,” Natasha says. Someone else might have meant it impatiently, but from her it’s reassuring. “Honestly, it’s pretty dapper. It makes you look rich.” She drains her wine glass, and as she’s pouring herself more adds, “Classy mobster, like I said.”

“I know.” She’s always told him this, kind of like Tony did—that it looks fancy or authoritative or cool, whatever any of that means. To him it just draws attention. He tries to shake it off. “How’s the wine?”

He thinks her face falls a little, but she says, “Pretty good.” Then, unfortunately, she falls silent again.

He casts around for another topic while she manages to eat linguine gracefully. “So—”

“Is it weird,” she says at the same time, “if I go to Peggy and Angie’s wedding with Clint?”

“As his plus-one?” Bucky shakes his head. “Why would that be weird?”

“I guess I don’t really know them,” she says, shrugging. “And I don’t really feel—connected, either. To anyone except Clint and you.”

Privately, Bucky thinks that the disconnect might be due to her erratic schedule, the mystery of which he still hasn’t been able to puzzle out: where she goes and when, not that it’s his business. But he could see it creating a gap between her and everyone who works at the gallery. “It’s not a crime to not be best friends with your boyfriend’s co-workers,” he points out, which is also true.

She purses her lips. “What does Angie do?” she says.

“She’s an actor,” Bucky says. “Stage, not film.”

“See, I don’t even know that.” She frowns into her empty glass. “Guess it’ll be fun, though. The wedding.” Abruptly, she looks up and smiles, and it seems genuine as far as Bucky can tell. “Should we go?” she asks.

“I don’t think they’ll let us bring that bottle to the show,” he says, nodding at it. “You got a plan?”

She pours the last of it into her glass. “Ah, twist my arm,” she says, and toasts him.

They get to the theater with twenty minutes to spare, a bit of a hike from the restaurant, and Bucky feels guilty despite Natasha’s insistence that she doesn’t mind walking. Neither of them takes the opportunity to mention starting up the sessions with Clint’s car again. Instead Natasha goes to the restroom and finds him again as the lights are going down. “This is gonna be great,” he murmurs to her. “I’m glad you thought of it.”

“Me too,” she whispers back. “I love this show.”

The first half really is great. Bucky’s heard the music before, but he thinks he’d love to see ballet more often if it weren’t so expensive. The spinning, the leaping—God, he feels unsophisticated, but it’s fascinating to watch. He didn’t think anyone could move like that.

He and Natasha go for a walk around the lobby during the intermission. “It’s so cool,” he keeps saying, skirting patrons at the bar, and he can tell it’s starting to lose meaning by the way she’s smiling more and more blandly.

But then he realizes it’s not him. “Hey,” she says as they’re turning to go back in, and lays a hand on his arm. “I’m—really not feeling well.”

“Oh,” he says, “do you want to go, or—?”

“I don’t want you to miss the rest of the show,” she says. “I’ll get a train home. You go on in, enjoy it. I really want you to see it.”

“You sure? You okay?”

She nods. “I’ll be fine.” And she gives him a one-armed hug before she goes.

The second half is just as good, if not better than, the first, but Bucky finds it harder to enjoy alone. When the lights come up he stays in his seat for a minute or two, trying to get his thoughts in order, satisfaction warring with disappointment. A little kid in a suit stares at his hand as he walks out.

In the lobby, he stops short at the sight of Natasha at the bar. “I thought you went home,” he says, walking over, trying not to sound accusatory.

“I felt better once I went outside,” she says lightly. “And I thought I’d stay, so we could walk back together.”

It’s loud with all the people from the audience getting drinks as well. “Well, I liked it,” he says, leaning in so as not to shout. “Especially the gingerbread lady—”

“God, not Mother Ginger!” Natasha says, and two or three people turn at her volume. “Come on, Barnes, have some _taste._ At least—I mean, Cavalier’s the obvious—”

“Who?”

“The prince!”

She’s drunk, he realizes, probably later than he should have. Drunker than he’s seen her in a very long time. “Come on,” he says, “let’s go home.”

She downs the rest of her glass in one. “Okay.”

Out in the brisk air, she leans on him and he lets her. She chatters for a bit about the ballet, her opinions on the first half and some things he didn’t know about the story and about Tchaikovsky. Bucky focuses mostly on steering her around other pedestrians and making sure they take the right turns. The last time she was like this, he thinks, it must have been shortly after they moved in together, both of them still at loose ends, expecting the world to fall out from under them. Having nightmares every night and shaking apart during the day. But she’s seemed better for months now, by a staggering amount, much better than he feels most of the time.

As they get closer to their neighborhood she lapses into silence. “Hey,” she says at length.

“What is it?” he asks, wondering if she forgot something at the theater.

“You should cut your hair.” She stumbles against him, her chin bumping his shoulder. “You know? I saw your picture—from when you enlisted—you were really cute, I mean, you still are, it’s not like—”

“Thanks,” he says. In spite of himself he laughs, shaking his head.

“Yeah, but you should cut it again,” she continues. As they step over the threshold of the apartment building she tugs gently on his hair. “You looked like an actor. Not—not cute, no.”

Bucky guides her into the elevator. “Again, thanks,” he says dryly.

“Oh! _Dashing.”_ She giggles. “Like, uh, like out of an old movie. Dapper.”

“Oh, I see.” He looks at her in the flickering light as they move upwards. Her makeup is smudged, but she has both earrings. “Well, I don’t want to cut it,” he tells her.

She doesn’t seem to mind. “Least you don’t put it in a bun.”

He lets them both into the apartment and sits Natasha down on the couch, brings her a glass of water. After making sure she’ll be all right for a moment, he goes and changes out of his suit. When he comes back she’s leaning against the arm of the couch with her eyes half-shut. “If you want to sleep, you should lie down,” he says. She mumbles agreement, and he helps her lie down on her side, and as an afterthought drags a trash can over, just in case.

His own head feels weighed down with exhaustion, and when he checks his phone he sees it’s nearly midnight, but he’s not careless enough to leave Natasha unattended right now. Instead he texts Steve. _You awake?_

In response, Steve texts him a picture of what appear to be his own feet, with Jarvis draped across his ankles. Right. He’d forgotten—Tony and Pepper are visiting Pepper’s parents, so Steve has the cat. _Jealous,_ he texts back.

Steve calls him a minute later. “Why do I get the feeling you’re having a much less relaxing evening than I am?” he asks, his voice warm and scratchy in Bucky’s ear. “I thought you were looking forward to the ballet.”

“I was, and it was fun, but—” Bucky looks over towards the couch. “Natasha got pretty drunk.” A moment of guilt pricks him. He’s pretty sure Natasha can’t hear him, but he doesn’t want to talk when she can’t defend herself.

“At the show?”

Bucky sighs. “It’s kind of complicated. She’s sleeping now.” He gives up, too confused to keep quiet. “It was like—she said she felt sick and wanted to leave, but then she was actually in the lobby drinking the whole time?”

Steve’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah, that’s strange,” he agrees eventually. “You should ask her about it.”

The thought of that conversation makes Bucky want to bang his head against something, given their rocky history of late. “Tomorrow, maybe,” he hedges, “if she’s feeling all right.” He sighs again, more tired than he’d realized even a few minutes ago. “How’s it going with you?”

“Oh, all right,” Steve says. “I’ve been making plans for rearranging the gallery space, you know, for all the new works we’re gonna get. How much do you think you can lift at once?”

“Probably however much you’re thinking of,” Bucky chuckles.

Steve laughs, too. “Good. You and Clint are gonna hate me. But—” He yawns, cutting himself off. “But it’ll pay off, trust me.”

“You should go to bed,” Bucky tells him. “How come you’re up, anyways?”

“Well,” Steve says, “you know.”

And there’s something in the way he says it that gives the lie to his easy response from before. The night suddenly seems very close. “Yeah,” Bucky says. He slides down in his chair. “I know.”

They hang up after that, but it doesn’t feel bad, or at least not in the way that Bucky might have expected. He fools around on his phone, listening to Natasha’s even breathing, and his eyelids grow heavier and heavier. He doesn’t even notice he’s fallen asleep until his head slides off his shoulder suddenly and he jerks awake to see Natasha blinking at him from the couch. “Oh, hey,” he says. His neck is sore from the angle.

She doesn’t respond right away, sitting up and rubbing a hand over her face. “Time is it?”

“Uh—” Bucky checks his phone. “One-twenty. How’re you feeling?”

She shrugs, sinks back into the couch cushions. “Think I’m still drunk.” With a very small smile, she adds, “My mouth tastes like literal shit.”

Bucky gets up and refills her glass at the sink. When he brings it back she makes no move to take it, so he sets it down on the coffee table.

She gazes at it for several seconds. “Sorry,” she says. “Guess I ruined the night.”

“What? No,” he says at once, and only then does he remember his conversation with Steve, but he brushes it off. “You weren’t out of control—well, a little, but—it’s fine. I mean, we both made it home. And I got to see the show, so.” He smiles at her, spreads his hands.

She raises her eyes from the glass to meet his. “I’m really tired,” she says. “I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

“I think that’s a good idea. For both of us.” He hovers as she gets up from the couch, follows her to the door of her room. He doesn’t know what to do or think when she shuts the door in his face, pretty sure that it wasn’t meant as a snub. He brushes his teeth and turns out all the lights, and then, conflicted and worried and fatigued beyond end, knocks on her door. When she mumbles permission, he comes in.

She’s lying flat on the bed with a pillow over her face. Carefully, he kneels down on the floor and tugs it off. “Come on, Romanoff. You can’t sleep like that.” He nudges her until she’s on her side again and he’s satisfied that she won’t die in the night. Then he goes and brings her the glass of water, sets it on the nightstand.

Before he takes his hand away, she reaches out and grabs his wrist. Her grip isn’t tight but he freezes nonetheless, uncertain, as if she’s a wild animal he might spook. “Thanks,” she says.

He kneels down again. “Of course.” As if she wouldn’t do it for him. As if he doesn’t owe her a million late nights, a thousand life debts for all that she’s seen him through.

At eye level, she watches him. “You looked nice in that suit, Bucky,” she whispers. “Like none of it ever happened.”

A cold shiver runs down his spine. It takes a moment before he knows how to talk again, and then he has to clear his throat before any sound comes out. “Get some sleep,” he tells her. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She lets his wrist go and he leaves, shutting the door noiselessly behind him.

—

“Have you thought about the holidays?” Sam asks, flipping back a few pages in his notebook.

“Sure,” Bucky says, because he has—to the extent that cleaning the apartment and dusting off his mom’s cookie recipes as _thinking about it._ It’s only just past Thanksgiving, after all. But he figures that’s not what Sam’s talking about. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Sam nods, like he expected the question. “The stress of the holiday season can increase anxiety,” Sam says, “make trauma feel fresh. Like we talked about last year. Improvements can seem to relapse. It doesn’t happen for everyone,” he adds, “but it’s important to be aware of.” He clears his throat. “So, what are your thoughts?”

“Sure,” Bucky says again, now buying himself a little time. He hasn’t felt particularly stressed yet, and it’s hard to imagine what could change that in the next month and a half. “I think it’ll be better than last year,” he offers.

“In what respect?”

Reluctantly, Bucky thinks back more concretely. He remembers most of last December—most of last year, really—through a haze of exhaustion and strangeness, as if he were looking out of someone else’s eyes. “It was a lot harder then,” he tries to explain, “just walking around and talking to people. I remember—I kept stopping in the street because those little Salvation Army bells made me jump out of my skin. And if it had just snowed I had to stay in the apartment because I didn’t like the drifts, didn’t want to feel it around my feet.”

He knows they talked about this at the time, but Sam is, as always, nothing but patient.

“It all felt closer,” Bucky says. “Like it had just happened, even though it had already been almost a year, and I kept waiting for everything to go wrong. I mean, it did,” he snorts, “every day, you know, I was always starting over.” He frowns. “But now I—I don’t know.” He shakes his head at his own inability to express himself. “It’s not as vivid. But it’s still there, right?”

Sam lifts his chin expectantly.

Right. That’s Bucky’s job to figure out. “I think it’ll be okay this time,” he says slowly. “I mean, it will be, I’ll make sure of it.” And the way Sam’s looking at him, he knows, _knows_ that the next question is going to be: how? He sighs.

“This is a good mindset to be in,” Sam tells him with a faint smile, as if he knows what Bucky’s thinking. “Even just knowing what might happen can help prevent it from actually coming true.”

“Like with the triggers,” Bucky remembers.

“Exactly. But it’s also important to have a plan of action, especially in these—uniquely stressful situations. Something to fall back on.”

Bucky snorts. “A spare tire?”

“Or a toolbox,” Sam offers. “A parachute.”

“So—what am I gonna do if things start to go south? That’s the question?” He really doesn’t expect Sam to say yes or no, and he’s not disappointed. “I’ll—I mean, I’ll talk to people. Try to process what I’m feeling, what exactly is causing the, uh, whatever’s happening. And I’ll journal if I have to, I guess.”

Sam nods as he makes notes. “In the past you’ve mentioned reluctance to do those things. Particularly talking to others when you’re having a rough time.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, uncomfortable. “Well. I think I’m doing better with that. Steve’s a good listener.” Privately, though—and he knows he’s working against himself—he doubts how much he’d want to tell Steve on, say, Christmas morning, if something ends up sending him off the deep end. Although Steve has proven himself time and time again. There are just limits, he thinks, to the burden he’s willing to give others, even if Steve wouldn’t say no. And sometimes that’s the worst part.

In the end Sam suggests that he make an attempt to talk with Steve, or anyone, about his plans for coping in advance. Another part of the parachute, so that everyone’s on the same page. It feels to daunting to just state flat-out, though, so Bucky suggests another drawing date.

Steve agrees eagerly, as Bucky knew he would. When Bucky shows up at his apartment he’s put to work immediately shoving furniture up against the walls to clear a space in the middle of the living room. “Sometimes I think you just keep me around for the grunt work,” he teases, lifting the foot of a chair over the fraying edge of the rug.

Steve smiles from his seat at the kitchen table where he is, of course, making tea. By now the scent feels as much like home as anything. “What can I say, I appreciate a muscular guy.”

“You’d better appreciate this one.” Bucky turns to survey the room, which looks strange and bare with indentations in the carpet where the furniture usually stands. “So how do you want me?” He raises one eyebrow.

“Good God.” Steve waves him over. “Come get your tea first.”

Squeezing into the kitchen, Bucky takes the mug and sips it too hot. “How’s the project, by the way?”

“Just fine.” Steve gives him an innocent, blank look. “Proceeding apace, et cetera et cetera, all according to plan.”

“I really think it’s gonna be great,” Bucky tells him.

“I know,” Steve says, “you keep saying.” But he hides a smile behind his hand. “You gotta stop stroking my ego like this.”

“But I love you,” Bucky explains, wide-eyed. He can’t keep a straight face at the look Steve gives him. “I love you!” he says again, exaggerated, leaning in.

Steve bursts out laughing. “You’re so fucking ridiculous.” He kisses Bucky on the mouth, bitter tea on his lips. “I love you too.”

Bucky pulls away and then goes back for more. “Mm, really, I do,” he insists. He’s bending almost double to kiss Steve and nearly loses his balance, stumbling clumsily and clutching the back of the chair.

Steve gives him a swat on the arm and says, smirking, “By the way, did you ever talk to Natasha?”

“Ah.” Bucky bites his lip. “No.”

“Why not? You sounded pretty worried about her.”

“Yeah, well, I was,” Bucky says, “I am.” The shitty thing is that he doesn’t really have a good excuse apart from the way she always evades the questions, or else gets offended that he’s asking at all. He knows he shouldn’t let that stop him. But— “It’s hard. I don’t know what to say to make her—”

“Listen?”

“No, just—to believe that I really care.”

Steve frowns. “I think she probably already knows that, Buck. You guys have lived together for a while now, right? And you’ve been through so much of the same stuff. Of course you care. She’d have to be deliberately deluding herself not to—”

“No, I know.” Bucky drains his mug and bangs it onto the table harder than he meant to, irritated and frustrated with himself. “Who knows, maybe there’s something else going on. Maybe Clint knows.” He turns to find Steve watching him and purses his lips. “I’ll ask her, I will. Hopefully it’s nothing.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Now are you gonna draw me and all my glorious muscles or not?”

“Oh, I suppose.” Steve waves a hand towards the cleared-out living room. “Go, uh, pick a pose. Whatever’s comfortable.”

Bucky walks into the middle of the empty area, which still isn’t exactly huge given the size of the room, and considers just flexing and leaving it at that. Or sitting down on the floor? Or— “I don’t know,” he says, turning back to Steve, “what kind of thing do you want to draw? I need inspiration.” Then he realizes that Steve hasn’t moved at all. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I can see you from here,” Steve says.

“True.” Bucky settles on sitting cross-legged on the floor, his elbows on his knees, figuring he can hold that for a while. He looks up to see that Steve still hasn’t even reached for his pencils; he’s sitting still. “You okay?” Bucky asks, tentative.

“Of course,” Steve says, but he still doesn’t move, watching Bucky, half a smile frozen on his face. “Actually,” he says after a moment, blinking and looking away, “I’m not having a good day. Health-wise. So I guess I’m also trying to conserve energy.” He shrugs, flipping his sketchpad open. “So that’s why I’m not getting up. Anyways.” He fiddles the pencil between his fingers. “You good? Comfortable?”

Bucky nods, cowed somehow, though by now he’s used to Steve taking things slow or not at all. He hopes he wasn’t wrong in asking—he doesn’t want Steve to take it as coddling or doubtful. But Steve doesn’t seem angry or hurt, just quiet, concentrating as he is on his work. For a few minutes the apartment is completely quiet aside from the scratching of the pencil.

It’s strange. Every time Steve draws him, and this must be somewhere around the tenth time by now, Bucky has the acute sensation of holding his breath. Sometimes he has to actually force himself to exhale, but most of the time it’s just a mental thing, filling him up with some weird tension. Not quite self-consciousness. He wonders what Sam would have to say about that.

Which reminds him. “So the holidays are coming up,” he says, tapping a fingernail against his knee.

“The great capitalist behemoth,” Steve remarks absently.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Bucky agrees, chuckling in spite of himself. “Um, last year I was kind of a wreck around this time of year.” He tries not to notice the way Steve’s pencil goes still, the sudden and tangible silence. “Everything felt really fresh and—I guess I really wasn’t equipped to handle a lot of things.” He shakes his head. “I guess I’m still not, but, uh—” He looks up from the patch of rug he’s been staring at and does his best to smile at Steve. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants him to know, not even how to start—

Steve starts drawing again, his gaze flickering between Bucky and the page. “There’s no rush,” he says softly.

How does he always know, Bucky wonders, exactly what is needed? “I know.” He takes a deep breath, presses his left palm flat against the floor. “I just wanted to let you know that things might not be—perfect, this year. I mean, they’ll be lots better, I’m just saying that there might be rough spots, you know, and if there are—God, I’m so bad at this.” He covers his face with his hands. “How do you talk to people?” he asks.

“Pretty much like this,” Steve says, and Bucky can hear from his voice that he’s smiling. When he peeks between his fingers, he sees that it’s fond, not amused. “Burying my face in my hands. On the inside, at least.”

“Thank God.” Bucky resumes his original pose, straightens his back. “I think I said it, anyways. Somewhere in there.”

“If you say so. I’m not quite sure I got the message.”

Bucky shakes his head, watching the way Steve watches him, the softness still there around his eyes. “Don’t worry. I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's (mis)quotation about the artist's calling was originally said by Robert Schumann or George Sand, depending on which website you look at: "The artist vocation is to send light into the human heart."
> 
> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	11. Part Four: Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for alcohol.

The city looks pristine on the twenty-third, covered in snow that falls fast and thick and silent past the window, and he lets Steve in with a kiss on the cheek. “In the middle of something?” Steve asks, surveying the kitchen table with raised eyebrows.

Bucky sits back down. The table is covered with old receipts and scribbled notes about who-knows-what. “I found a bag of shame,” he says sheepishly.

“A what?” Steve says, suppressed laughter making his voice shake.

“You know.” Bucky gestures at the empty shell of a paper bag that sits on the floor. “When you don’t want to clean so you shove everything into a paper bag to deal with later. But you never get to it. And it turns into a bag of—”

“—Shame, yeah, okay.” Steve grins and shakes his head. “Well, don’t get too ashamed of yourself. I have plans for tonight and they don’t involve, uh”—he reads the closest note upside-down—“buying cauliflower.”

As Steve makes himself cozy in the living room, Bucky moves the offending note onto the pile of things to be thrown out or recycled. Then he pauses, caught like a deer in the headlights by the brochure sitting beneath it. He shakes himself. Whatever. Puts it to one side again, on the too-involved-for-right-now pile. Busies himself with the next receipt. Smiles at Natasha as she pulls a bottle of celebratory holiday beer from the fridge.

The next afternoon, however, Steve tells him to “just deal with whatever it is already and stop sighing like that,” so Bucky obliges. He extracts himself from the cocoon of blankets they’ve made on the couch and pulls his laptop out of the bag he brought to Steve’s apartment, opens up his email. He’s stared at the email address Sam gave him so many times that it’s memorized by now; he types it in.

And then he has to actually write the damn thing. But what does he even want to know? _I want you to cut off my arm,_ he types, and deletes it. _Some sick fuckers attached an anvil to my shoulder and I want you to take it off._ He deletes that, too. _I would like some more information about the services you’re advertising._ But does he? Merry fucking Christmas.

“What are you working on?” Steve asks twenty minutes later. He’s been playing on his phone, not sleeping, but now he half-sits up and looks at Bucky curiously. “You’re glaring at your computer like it did you a personal wrong.”

“Am I?” Bucky makes an effort to smooth the frown from his face.

“And you’re hitting the keyboard really hard,” Steve adds. “Everything okay?”

Bucky looks at him, though he doesn’t really want to—he knows it’ll make him doubt, make him weak. And it does. “I’m trying to send an email,” he explains. Hoping that’s enough, he cuts his eyes back to the screen, re-reads what he’s got. It’s not very good. “I don’t know how to word it.”

“What are you trying to say?” Steve asks, levering himself off the couch.

Before he gets two feet near him, Bucky shuts the laptop, though he knows it must look suspicious or even rude. “I’ll figure it out later,” he tells Steve, smiling at him and getting out of the chair. “At least I got started. You don’t have to get up.”

The look Steve gives him is skeptical, but he goes back to the couch. “You’d tell me if it were serious,” he says, “right?”

Bucky settles in and pulls Steve on top of him, his weight secure for now instead of smothering. “You know I would,” he says, and tries to believe it’s not a lie.

That works for about three hours. Then they wind up sprawled across the bed after dinner, Steve reading and Bucky deluding himself while staring at the ceiling, and Steve looks over at him. “Can I draw you?” he asks.

It must be the twentieth time. “Like one of your French girls,” Bucky suggests, rolling down onto his side with exaggerated flirtatiousness.

Steve goes to get his sketchbook, laughing. “Just sit how you were before.” He comes back and tries to tug Bucky’s shoulders around. “Like—yeah, with your head back.”

But he doesn’t start drawing, and Bucky relaxes his pose. “What?”

Steve hesitates a moment longer. “Nothing,” he says quickly, apparently deciding. “I don’t wanna make you do anything.”

“No, come on,” Bucky says, “it’s Christmas. I’ll do it for you.”

For a long second, Steve gazes at him, biting his lip. He’s slightly flushed, but that could be the lighting or the warm room. “Could you take off your shirt?” he asks eventually.

Bucky blinks. It’s like Steve can read his mind. He’s suddenly reminded of Tony, sneering in the gallery the first time they met— _it goes ding when there’s bullshit._ And this might be the biggest thing he’s ever bullshitted Steve on, apart from the obvious. Bucky’s never taken off his shirt in front of him before, never worn a tank top. There are some things, he’d reasoned, that didn’t need to come to light.

But he wonders now if the universe isn’t trying to tell him something, because these thoughts feel familiar, and Steve’s proven him wrong every time before. And yet— “I just don’t think you want to see that,” he tells Steve, and he knows he sounds defeated.

Steve reacts immediately, setting the sketchbook aside. “Because of your arm?”

“Yeah, that,” Bucky agrees, “and—there’s a lot of scarring.” And he doesn’t know what Steve’s face will look like when he sees, or if he’ll ever touch him again, or what it might feel like if he does.

“I’ve got scars, too,” Steve reminds him gently.

Bucky knows. He’s seen them. In the crooks of his arms, on his thighs, all the places where the doctors fixed him, and a big one across his chest where they tried to and couldn’t. And he knows Steve isn’t trying to compare, just to say that he understands. He opens his mouth to speak and what comes out is, “I’m afraid.” It’s the only truth he can find, deep at the heart of himself. He doesn’t know how to change it.

Steve nods. He looks down, away, then his eyes come back to Bucky’s. “You can choose what’s best for you,” he says, as if it’s simple. “I trust you.”

“I trust you,” Bucky repeats back, realizing it completely for what must be the first time. Two truths. He can manage that. He forces himself not to hesitate, pulls his shirt off.

He knows what his bare body looks like, though sometimes he wishes he didn’t. The first two days when he could stand upright, he’d stay in front of the mirror for hours swallowing down the bile and trying to decipher the strange runic lines etched into his skin. Silver, red, pink, brown, white. Like cracked glass around his shoulder, with thin vines roping across his collarbone, over his upper back. Twisting his into a demented code he can read with the tips of his fingers.

He doesn’t need to look down to know what Steve sees, and he doesn’t want to. But he looks at Steve, because he can’t bear to look anywhere else, and sees the soft overhead light reflected in his eyes. “It goes under the skin,” he tells Steve. “It’s—knit into the muscle, practically fused to the bone.” He doesn’t know why he’s saying it; it’s not as if it’s helping.

“It isn’t so bad,” Steve says.

“Then why do you sound like that?” Bucky asks, hearing how Steve’s voice is broken and threadbare.

“Because they hurt you,” Steve says, and it makes Bucky think that maybe what he took for rawness was really anger.

So Steve proves him wrong again. It makes Bucky smile. “But I’m here,” he says. “I’m okay.” In the moment, he believes it.

Steve smiles back. “You’re beautiful.”

It tips the scale into disbelief. “Nah,” Bucky says, “don’t—”

“It’s true,” Steve insists, reaching out to calm him down or brush his hair back or whatever, Bucky doesn’t know, but his hand drops again a second later without touching anything. “You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Bucky snorts softly; it’s so dramatic, not to mention unnecessary. “Thanks.”

Steve shrugs. His eyes are wandering, Bucky can tell, over the tapestry of scars, and he has a burst of intuition, one he didn’t have by that pond in the woods, but it feels like something he should have realized long ago. “You can touch me, if you want,” he says.

For a moment Steve just blinks at him. “Are you sure?”

“Well—” Doubt wells up. “If you don’t want to—”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “That’s not it, I just want to make sure it’s really okay.” He seems to be choosing his words carefully. “I don’t want to hurt y—”

“Please,” Bucky says, and his voice breaks from a yearning he hadn’t known was in him. He wants to be touched. It’s a revelation.

Steve lifts his hand, then gives him one last second of grace before it comes to rest on Bucky’s shoulder, at the seam of metal and flesh.

Suddenly the air is still between them, and Bucky feels Steve’s touch like it’s electric. No, like it’s water—no, maybe like no touch at all. And then Steve moves his hand, minutely, and the world orbits around the places where their skin presses together, only four fingertips wide. Bucky closes his eyes and breathes in. It catches in his throat.

Steve is tracing the scars, he can feel it, and then he says, “Buck, you’re shaking.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, opening his eyes again.

“You good?”

“Yeah.” Even his voice holds a tremor. “I think so.” He looks down at his right hand. It’s true; he’s visibly trembling. Then Steve pulls back slightly and Bucky sees that he’s shaking, too; he does that sometimes, not always for any discernible reason or (more likely, Steve tells him) for several reasons at once. “Look.” Bucky holds his hand up so their palms are an inch or so apart, the distance wavering in time with their bodies. “We match.”

Steve presses their hands together, fits their fingers together so they’re holding each other. Like this, the shaking is all but invisible. Steve’s other hand comes up to his collarbone, resting somewhere between neck and shoulder, his fingers trailing over the metal and onto flesh as if he doesn’t even feel the difference. They stay there a moment, breathing. Then Steve leans in to kiss him, and Bucky feels steady, grounded, alive in a way that no longer puzzles him and hardly hurts at all.

—

In the week between Christmas and the new year, Steve holes himself up in the back room of the gallery and tells Bucky he’s no longer allowed to see the project at all. That’s fine with Bucky: he and Clint get started on rearranging the rest of the space for the festival, following Steve’s written and shouted instructions as well as a rough sketch of the desired layout.

“Christ,” Clint says, watching Bucky shove a stack of shelves across the floor on his own. “Steve should hire you for real. Pay you for your manual labor.”

Bucky frowns, leaning against the shelves. “He’s my boyfriend. That’d be a little weird, don’t you think?”

Clint tilts his head in consideration. “Only if you take it home with you. Tony worked for Pepper before he came here, and they’re still going strong.” He walks to the other side of the shelves and takes hold.

Together, they move the unit up against the wall. “How’d he wind up here?” Bucky wonders aloud. “Actually—how’d _you_ wind up here? It’s pretty different from the FBI.”

“Yeah, that was the point.” Clint shrugs. “I found the place through Peggy, actually. You could say she recruited me. And I don’t have a lick of art training”—he makes a zero with his hand—“but they needed the extra hands while things were getting off the ground, so I went with it.”

“Plus he needs the stability in his schedule,” Steve says, coming around the corner with Jarvis in his arms. He grins at Clint. “Left to your own devices, you’d be nocturnal.”

Clint doesn’t deny it. “Is the little guy messing with your work?” he asks instead, giving Jarvis a pat. “Is that why you’re foisting him on us?”

“No, Pepper’s coming to pick him up.” Steve looks around at the front room. “You guys have been busy, huh?”

“It’s mostly Bucky,” Clint tells him.

“No, not r—”

“You should put him on the payroll.” Clint raises his eyebrows at Bucky as if daring him to argue. “He works like two people.”

“That’d be weird,” Steve says at once, not even looking at Bucky, busy unsticking Jarvis’s claws from his shirt. “Here, can you take him? I gotta get back to work.” He deposits the cat into Clint’s arms.

As Steve leaves, Clint looks down at Jarvis with an expression of defeat. “Guess this is my day now,” he says. “Hope you didn’t want me to help anymore.”

Bucky chuckles, turning around to find the next piece of furniture to be moved, and then turns back, struck by an idea. “Uh—not to get too personal,” he begins, “but how’s Natasha?”

Clint glances at him, something shifting in the set of his shoulders. “She’s all right,” he says. “She’s going through some stuff right now—but she’s working on it. Working through it.”

It’s so cryptic that Bucky mostly just feels more confused. “That’s good,” he says.

“Why do you ask? You probably see her as much as I do.”

“I guess.” Though she rarely spends two nights in a row in the apartment anymore. “We don’t talk much, though. Not about anything important.”

“Hm.” Clint offers Jarvis to Bucky for petting. “She plays her cards close to the chest, Nat does. Especially if she likes you.” He nods, half to himself. “But we’ve just gotta keep being there for her, right?”

“Right,” Bucky says. Even if it’s hard. Even if he can barely look after himself—even if she could probably hand him his ass most days of the week in that arena. He sighs. Jarvis pushes his nose into his palm.

—

“Twenty minutes left,” Steve says, checking his phone. “Can we get the champagne yet?”

“And this from a guy who wouldn’t let me look at his art for months. I think maybe you just want to make me suffer,” Bucky says. “No, we’re gonna wait till midnight.”

Steve contents himself with another potato chip, leaning carefully around the candles to get it. “Got any resolutions?”

“Oh, I hadn’t even thought about that.” Bucky takes a chip, too. “You?” he asks with his mouth full.

“A few.” Steve ticks them off on his fingers. “Take on more local artists. Recycle more. Read up on oil painting.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose. “Sounds kind of boring.”

“And take you to the Met again,” Steve finishes. “As a real date.”

“Oh, yeah. You gotta show me that abstract stuff this time.” Bucky nods. “I can get behind that. Good resolution.”

“One time in high school,” Steve says, chuckling, “I made a resolution to go camping and forgot about it till the next December.”

“Did you go?”

“Well, I couldn’t _not_ go.” Steve rolls his eyes. “One of my friends lived in a building with an old courtyard, he shoveled it out and we set up a tent in there. It was just below freezing the whole night.” He starts laughing in earnest and covers his face with his hands. “I still can’t believe my mom let me do that. I missed Christmas, I was so sick. God. And I had like ten layers on and everything.”

“Idiot.” Bucky squeezes his hand and flicks the TV back to the streaming from Times Square. “We should go camping. This summer, so we don’t die.”

“Put it on the list.” Steve turns and surveys him with his chin resting on his knuckles. “So did you think of any resolutions for yourself yet?”

Bucky sighs dramatically. “Let’s see. Clean the apartment—really clean it, this time. Which I think I might’ve said last year, too.”

Steve pokes him on the shoulder. “Boring, yourself.”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, “cook more instead of getting takeout? I don’t know what to say. You took all the good ones.” He gets off the couch and goes to the kitchen, retrieves the bottle of champagne from the counter. There’s an unexpected heaviness in his chest at the thought of the coming year, at odds with the tone of the evening—and all the more unexpected because of how much better he’s felt lately. But when he considers the months ahead of him, he doesn’t know if it’ll last. What kind of promises could he ever make to himself?

As he comes back, Steve makes a noise of protest. “You said we had to wait!”

“We’re just getting ready.” Bucky sits back down. “It’s a shame champagne doesn’t have a cap on it. This thing comes in pretty handy as a bottle opener.” He wiggles his metal fingers.

“Ah, well. I guess I just have to accept you as you are.” Steve kisses him on the cheek. “It’s gonna be a good year. I can feel it.”

“With you?” Bucky smiles at him in spite of all his misgivings. “Without a doubt.”

There’s a countdown on the screen now, but Steve checks his phone again anyways. “Where’s Natasha?”

“Clint’s.” Bucky catches the look Steve gives him and waves a hand. “He says she’s doing all right. Just going through some stuff.”

Steve nods, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “Aren’t we all.” For once, and to Bucky’s relief, he doesn’t pursue the subject further.

They spend the next few minutes watching the crowds in Times Square and listening to the upstairs neighbors scream well-wishes out their window to no one in particular. Then the countdown reaches thirty seconds, and at the exact same moment, Steve’s phone starts beeping. “Oh, fuck,” Steve says, and lunges for his bag.

“What?”

“I gotta—um—” Frowning in concentration, Steve counts out a handful of various pills and hurries into the kitchen, where he sticks his mouth under the faucet and swallows them. “Fourteen, thirteen, twelve,” he says, shaking his hands dry on his way back to the couch.

“You really fucked up your dosage schedule, huh?” Bucky asks, pulling him down beside him.

“Nine, eight—” Steve says in lieu of answering.

Bucky laughs and counts down the last seconds with him. “Four, three, two, one!”

The noise from the TV is, of course, colossal, as is the ruckus outside and in the apartments all around them, and next to him Steve yells and punches the air. Bucky braces himself against the noise of the fireworks—off they go, sharp, staccato, violent. But they fade into a background rhythm after a moment or two, half drowned-out by all the rest, even as Steve lays a hand on his back, comforting and close.

“Happy New Year,” Bucky tells him. It stays in the small space between the two of them.

Steve smiles. “Happy New Year.” He kisses him softly, lingering, his fingers gentle on Bucky’s skin. Then he pulls away. “Now, champagne.”

“God, you’re like a dog with a bone.” Bucky humors him, though, grabbing the bottle and the towel and twisting the way Nick taught him—

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Steve says, pouting theatrically as the cork comes out without even a hint of foam.

“My old CO told us he lost his eye to a wayward champagne cork,” Bucky says dryly. “Among other things. Not his most ridiculous story, but the most unbelievable, given the kind of guy he is.” He pours two glasses.

Steve takes his glass with a chuckle and raises it in a toast. “To 2021,” he says, “and—” He pauses, his glass still in the air, looking up.

Bucky hears it, too. The upstairs neighbors are singing _Auld Lang Syne,_ and there are enough people that it sounds good, full. His eyes go to Steve, who’s still gazing upward, a faint smile on his lips. The candlelight flickers over his face and takes the edge away from his bones, tinged blue as well from the TV. Then he looks at Bucky and catches him staring. He doesn’t look away. “You know,” Bucky says, “I think the best thing that ever happened to me was meeting you.”

The expression that spreads across Steve’s face isn’t happy, exactly. He looks at Bucky as if he’s trying to memorize his features. “That’s very cliché,” he murmurs.

Is Bucky imagining it, or is his voice slightly choked? “It’s true,” he says, and he wants to say more, but he doesn’t know what. It’s true, that’s all. There doesn’t seem to be anything else.

Steve sets his glass down, still un-toasted, and reaches for Bucky’s hands with both of his. “I get the feeling,” he says thoughtfully, “that a lot of the time we don’t know the best things until they’re gone. So I want to say—at the risk of being melodramatic—”

“Too late,” Bucky can’t resist adding.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. “I want to say that you make me happy. Happier than I thought I could be with another person.”

It almost hurts, is almost incomprehensible. Bucky lifts Steve’s left hand and then the right to his mouth and kisses the knuckles. He doesn’t know what he did to get here, how he can possibly deserve it, why on earth it’s him—but he’ll take it, as long as it lasts.

—

Bucky stretches and his toes are suddenly chilly. He rolls away from the cold and straight into something warm, which shifts in response and makes a noise. A second passes, and then he orients himself. Bed. January first. He keeps his eyes closed. “Morning,” he mumbles.

Steve’s only response is a faint sigh.

There’s a moment in which Bucky considers going back to sleep, but having spoken, he can already feel himself waking up. He opens his eyes to see Steve’s light hair inches from his face. They’re curled close together under the comforter, as it isn’t a large bed; Bucky brushes a kiss to the top of Steve’s head and sits up.

The room is brightly lit from the window, at such an angle that it must be late in the morning already. He looks at his phone—past noon. And freezing, as it turns out. He pulls off the top blanket and wraps it around himself as he shuffles out of the bedroom.

It’s clear from the shoes by the door that Natasha still isn’t back yet. Bucky takes his time pouring water and crosses to the window to look out: the sidewalks are piled with snow that must have fallen last night and littered with confetti thrown from someone’s apartment. He thinks, suddenly and vividly, of this morning last year, the broken glass and bandages on both his and Natasha’s hands. The stunned incredulity that anyone, anywhere, could be starting over. It runs through him like cold water and he shivers. The shower door had been repaired in a week, but Natasha still has scars on her knuckles from where she fell. And it was to help him up, so he didn’t cut himself more—slowly, he remembers, they hobbled to the living room and took deep breaths and watched the snow come down, flakes so soft and fluffy they seemed to belong to another world.

The noise of the tea kettle boiling makes Bucky start and grip the windowsill with a thudding pulse. How long has he been standing there, staring at nothing? He returns to the stove and switches it off, leans against the counter. Not today. He doesn’t want it to go wrong, not on the tail of such a beautiful night.

 _So,_ says a voice in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Sam, _what are you going to do about it?_ It’s the logical next step, but it throws Bucky for a loop all the same. He pours water into mugs with steady hands.

“Hi,” comes Steve’s voice, still sleep-rough. Bucky turns to see him shambling out of the bedroom, the comforter wrapped around his shoulders like a very thick cape. “It snowed, like, a foot out there.”

He looks so tired still that it makes Bucky smile. “I was just making tea,” he says, gesturing to the cups. “We don’t have to go out in it.”

Steve shuffles closer. He pauses as he approaches, looking into Bucky’s face. “You look a little on edge,” he says, and his eyes grow more alert. “Everything okay?”

God, he must be even more of an open book than he thought. Here he was trying to look sane. “Yeah, totally,” he says, giving what he hopes is a reassuring nod. “Just remembered some weird stuff. I…” He shakes his head. “It’s fine. Only memories.”

For a second longer, Steve looks at him with a searching expression. Apparently satisfied, he smiles back and pulls teabags from the cabinet. By now he knows the layout of the kitchen as well as Bucky does; it’s his kettle, too, bought cheap and in Bucky’s favorite navy blue. “Were you serious last night? About cooking more?”

It catches Bucky off-guard. “I guess.”

Picking up on the wariness in his tone, Steve waves a hand. “We don’t need to talk about it now, I was just wondering. ‘Cause I have some ideas. Cheesy, domestic shit, you know. Anyways—” He yawns. “Fuck, we slept, what, ten hours? At least? This is ridiculous.”

“So you did sleep all right?” Bucky asks. He’s learned that the fatigue and exhaustion don’t necessarily make for easy nights on Steve’s end; if anything, the other symptoms and medications can make it worse. “Even with the champagne?”

Steve smiles like he knows why Bucky is asking. “Out like a light.” His eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Good.” Bucky leans in and pulls Steve gently to him so his head fits underneath Bucky’s chin. One of Steve’s arms snakes around Bucky’s waist, still holding his own blanket so they make a sort of patchwork quilt, and it feels right. Bucky closes his eyes.

He doesn’t realize Natasha’s come in until he hears her stumble against the door. He looks over, still with Steve clinging to him, and sees she’s lost her balance in an attempt to remove her boots quietly. There’s a small smile on her face as she looks over at them. “Sorry,” she stage-whispers.

Steve turns his head, disentangles himself slightly, though he’s hindered by their blankets. “Oh, good morning. Or, well—”

Bucky chuckles. “How’s Clint?”

“Oh, fine.” and finishes taking off her boots. “Don’t let me interrupt. You guys look so sweet, standing there like that.” Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, her eyes bright. “You look happy.”

She’s already halfway to the door to her bedroom, taking off her coat as she goes. “Happy New Year!” Steve calls after her. “You want breakfast?”

She snorts and then, turning, she shakes her head. “I didn’t get much sleep. You two have a nice afternoon, though.” She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “And happy New Year.”

Then she’s gone, and Steve turns back to Bucky. “Hear that? You look happy.”

“You, too,” Bucky points out. “Wonder why.”

—

It’s remarkable how quickly the city becomes a nuisance again after the holidays are over. The snow turns to a complication when Bucky walks to work, the festive lights to blinding flares as he’s trying to sleep at night. And all of the mundane worries come back, too, as well as some that aren’t so trivial. Steve catches him compulsively running his own fingers along the grooves in his metal arm and doesn’t seem to know how to react, and to tell the truth, neither does Bucky.

He sends the email. _To whom it may concern._ What is he really asking, he wonders? _I was referred to your practice through the VA, and I’m interested in learning more about the services you provide. Please let me know the best way to get in touch…_ Reading back through the words, his stomach roils uncomfortably.

And Steve notices. Of course he does. But he doesn’t confront Bucky about it or say anything at all, just continues on in the warm and gentle way he has. “You look good,” he tells Bucky, both of them looking into the same mirror, Bucky slicking back his hair with Steve’s gel for the hell of it even though they’re only going to a movie.

Bucky chuckles. “Natasha says the gel makes me look like a mobster.”

“Aw, no,” Steve says. “Well—a little bit.”

Even as he grins, Bucky’s thoughts run on ahead to the other things Natasha said that night. _You looked nice in that suit. Like none of it ever happened._ His eyes go to his left wrist in the mirror, sparking silver between the cuff of his shirt and the pocket he’s stuffed his hand into. Force of habit. The smile slides off his face and something heavy settles in his chest. “Steve?” he begins, tentative.

“Mm-hm?”

“I need to—ask you something.” No, that’s not it. “I mean I need your help with something.” He swallows. Why, after so long, is this still so hard? It’s not as if Steve hasn’t proven himself true over and over again.

Right on cue, Steve says, “You wanna go sit down?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “good idea.” He leads the way into the living room, as familiar as his own by now, and sits on the couch. He checks his phone: they still have a while till the movie. “What do you—what do you think of my arm?” he asks, point-blank, before he can change his mind.

He regrets the question as soon as it’s out, but that was kind of the point. He feels worse, though, when he sees the look on Steve’s face. Surprised, confused, and quite clearly conflicted. “It’s your arm,” Steve says slowly. “It’s just—you mean the left one, don’t you?” He doesn’t wait for the answer. “I mean, I don’t feel one way or the other about it, I guess. It’s your arm,” he repeats, and shrugs.

Bucky doesn’t know what he expected, let alone what he wanted. “I have an opportunity,” he says. “My therapist told me—” And he launches headlong into an explanation of the possibilities, except of course he still doesn’t know very much. “No one else is even trying surgery like this, it’s so extensive—”

Steve is nodding, and Bucky can see that he has a question, so he falls silent. “I’m just wondering,” Steve says, “why?”

“Why?” Bucky echoes. “Because it—it makes me sick, it’s not _mine.”_ The words come out with a force that surprises him. “I killed people with this,” he says, inclining his head. “Doesn’t that make sense—?”

Patiently, Steve keeps nodding. “Perfect sense,” he says, sincere. “But what do you need me for?”

“Well, I—” It gives Bucky pause. He thinks it over, trying to get his thoughts in order before he answers. He’s been afraid of revealing too much, but at the same time there’s no one else whose opinion he wants more. “You just seem to have a good head on your shoulders,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “And I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Steve says gently. It’s the first direct contradiction he’s offered. “Not about something like this. You should trust yourself.” He blinks, apologetic. “Buck, I just don’t feel comfortable—”

“I’m not asking you to make the decision for me,” Bucky rushes.

“No, I know, but even this—” Steve shakes his head. “I’ve seen how all this weighs on you, Bucky. I can tell you’re struggling. And I want to help, I do, but I don’t think I should have a voice in this—I mean, there are risks, and if it goes wrong—or if you regret it—I don’t think I should be a part of that.” Steve breathes in, pauses, and then says, more quietly, “I’ll support you in whatever choice you make. Of course I will. But I don’t want to tell you what I think you should do.”

It’s fair. It’s fair. Bucky knows he has no right to ask any more. But he feels his eyes burn all the same, and when he speaks his voice is choked. “I don’t know, though,” he tries to explain. “I don’t know what I should do. I’m—” _paralyzed,_ he wants to say, but that’s not it. “I don’t know what the right choice is, and I—God, I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t figure it out on my own.” He fights against the ache in his throat. “Sometimes I just think—I feel like there are things I can’t fight against. Like there’s nothing I can do and this—this fucking shit, all of it, it’s just meant to happen. There’s no—” He breaks off, because Steve is looking at him with something beyond concern. “What?”

“Do you actually think that?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know what else to think,” Bucky replies, a little shocked at himself, at the torrent of words that’s just come pouring out of his mouth. But none of it was a lie. He shakes his head. “I want to—decide, somehow, about the arm, because when I think about how long this is going to take, how many times I’ll have to—to live it all over again in my head, I can see it stretching out before me and I don’t know if I can do it.” He’s got his hands clasped in front of his mouth and he stares at the floor, swallowing hard, hearing every tremor in his voice. “I just can’t imagine when I’ll ever get to the point that you’re at.”

Steve’s voice is, all at once, almost sharp. “And what kind of point are you thinking I’m at?”

Bucky looks up. He didn’t expect to have to explain. “Where you’re just—where you say things and it doesn’t bother you, the things you admit, and you’re—you’re okay with it.” He frowns, thinking of the easy way Steve just _exists._ “Where it doesn’t kill you to know everything you can’t do or scare you half to death to think you might never be okay.” Sure, he’s been frustrated, but he’s never had a breakdown about it.

“Well—sorry, Bucky,” Steve says, and it’s clear that he’s keeping a check on his tone, “but honestly I think I’m just better at pretending.” His hair falls in his eyes and he brushes it back, impatient. “It’s not like I have some secret for success. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Intellectually, Bucky knows this. “But you act like you do.”

Steve breathes out. “Because I—because I have people who let me act that way. But if I fuck up and overdo it then they’ve got my back.” He leans away from Bucky, looking at him with wide eyes. “I don’t work first thing in the morning. When I wind up in the hospital the gallery keeps going because everyone else jumps in and works more and doesn’t expect me to apologize for it.”

“You do anyways, though,” Bucky points out. “I’ve heard you.”

“Yeah, because they’ve got their own issues,” Steve shoots back. The line of his jaw is hard. “I’m not gonna put my shit on them any more than I have to. It’s not like they can—” His hand slices through the air and he doesn’t finish the sentence, but Bucky can’t tell whether it’s because he’s thought better of it or because he just can’t get the words out. He’s staring at Bucky, shaking his head. Then he scoffs and looks away. The skin on his knuckles whitens as he clenches his hands around each other. “All this time,” he says, subdued, “you thought I—wow.” He looks faint, a little sick, and somehow that’s the hardest to bear, even more than his outburst. He shakes his head again and looks at his hands, knotted in his lap.

The air between them is charged in a way it’s never been before. Bucky opens his mouth, but the right words don’t come. And with the expression on Steve’s face, he can’t rely on a reassuring response. It’s like going up a staircase and thinking there’s one more step than there is. He feels a horrible churning in his stomach. “Do you want me to leave?” he asks, trying to be gentle in spite of himself. To do what is probably right, even if he doesn’t want to go.

After a couple seconds, Steve looks at him, measured, considering. “I think that’s probably best,” he says softly.

So Bucky does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for alcohol.

It’s not, Bucky reasons, as if they’ve actually broken up. Even thinking the words seems a little childish. But he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself over the next couple days, his phone silent, work a monotony, Natasha appearing for no more than a few minutes between ballet and Clint’s.

The first few months were like this, too. He remembers a morning in that foggy June when Rebecca had gone back to work and left him in that empty house by himself. Out of necessity, not cruelty or indifference. He had agreed to it. And then the hours began to wear and he couldn’t even pretend to read or take his medicine or try any of the breathing techniques the doctors had given him.

The rest of it isn’t quite as clear—he remembers Rebecca’s hands, still stained with grease and chalk and too close, too strong, holding him up. He remembers the ride back to the hospital, as if he’d never left. He thinks he remembers her crying, or maybe just sighing. Calling their mother. Running her fingers through his hair as he drifted somewhere away from his body.

He tries not to be too melodramatic about it, now: it’s not as if a fight with Steve has undone twenty-one months of progress. And he does recognize it as progress in a way he hadn’t before when it turns out that the fight itself is still what bothers him most, not the crawling sensation over his skin when he looks in the mirror or the ache that he’s starting to think will always linger in certain bones.

But that doesn’t stop him from scrambling for his phone when it finally does ring. “Hey?” he says, picking up as soon as he sees that it’s Steve calling, caught between a question and an exclamation in his hurry.

“Hi,” Steve says. There’s a pause. “I’m sorry for not calling sooner,” he says then. “Kind of rude of me.”

“Well, I didn’t call either,” Bucky points out.

Steve sighs. “True.”

It sounds as if he wants to say something else, but then he stays silent. “I do want to say sorry, too,” Bucky says eventually. “For upsetting you. But I don’t—I don’t really get it.” Which sounds just as awful as it is. “I’ve been trying to think through what you said—”

“I said a lot of stuff,” Steve interrupts. He doesn’t sound angry. “But it wasn’t really the thing about your arm, that wasn’t really what bothered me.” He hesitates, and Bucky can practically hear him gathering his thoughts. “I still don’t know if I should help you with that,” he says finally, “and I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. But I don’t think I’m the right person. I don’t know if anyone is, other than you, but it sure as hell isn’t me. Fuck,” he adds, “sorry.” He lets out a long breath. “I’m not used to talking about this. Hard not to get emotional. But I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

“I get it,” Bucky says.

“Hm.” Bucky can picture him, wherever he is, that pinched expression of deep thought on his face, the set of his lips. “I swear to God it’s not the arm,” Steve repeats. “It’s—all the rest of it. What you said about me, about this all being fate or whatever, I mean—” Again, he sighs. “I’m just not comfortable,” he says, “with you looking to me as some—pinnacle of psychological health. Someone who’s got it together. Because I don’t, Bucky.”

“I know,” Bucky replies.

“Do you?” Steve asks. “Are you sure?” He makes a small, frustrated noise. “I don’t know, it’s—I love you, Buck, and I want to help you—but I can’t be that type of support for you. And I should have said something sooner, but I didn’t realize.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” They’re both silent for a few moments. Bucky can’t say what Steve’s thinking, but he himself is wondering what exactly Steve didn’t realize. He doesn’t know if it’s something he should ask. “I’m sorry to say this stuff this over the phone,” Steve adds, sending a bolt of fear through Bucky’s mind. “I wanted it to be in person, it’s just, I got this last-minute phone call and now I’m at the airport, I’m flying out to New Mexico. A thing with the festival, I have to—sign legal stuff, meet some people face-to-face.”

Bucky nods, though Steve can’t see him. “Okay.” He swallows. “Is this, um, the end of the line?”

“Is it—oh, I’m not breaking up with you, no,” Steve says, and thank God, he sounds like it hadn’t even occurred to him. “But I’m gonna be in away till February eighth,” he continues, “so we just, you know, won’t see each other for a little while. And I wanted to explain a little more, or try to, before skipping town.”

“Oh,” Bucky says again. “I... I appreciate that.”

“And we should maybe take some time, anyways,” Steve says, sounding a bit relieved, “while I’m gone, just to figure things out.”

“Figure things out,” Bucky repeats. Well, that’s something he’ll definitely have to do; he just wishes Steve could be there in person to help him do it. He catches the thought—how fucking ironic—and sighs. Maybe it’s for the best that they won’t come face-to-face for a bit. “I think you’re right,” he says.

When Steve speaks again, Bucky can’t tell if he’s surprised or not. “I’ll have my phone,” he says. “If you want to talk.”

“Right.” But Bucky doesn’t know what he would say, or even where to start.

Over the line comes the muffled sound of the airport PA system, and Steve waits until the message is over to say, “I gotta go. I’ll be back in—um, a week and a half, I guess. So I’ll see you then, all right?”

“All right,” Bucky says. “Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies. “And—I love you, Bucky.”

“Love you, too,” Bucky says. There’s a beep. Then silence, just like that, car horns blaring outside, the sound of Bucky’s breath in the empty room.

—

 _Look at this dog,_ Steve texts him the following day at noon, followed by a picture of an a Great Dane puppy. _His name is Thor._

Bucky stares at the picture for a minute, overthinking his response and overthinking how unnecessary all the overthinking is. _He’s perfect,_ he finally texts back. Is it strange that Steve is acting as if nothing happened between them? Is it strange that Bucky finds that strange?

—

Bucky keeps reliving the conversation in his head. He worries at it like a loose tooth, and all right, he doesn’t know if it’s fair of him to _expect_ Steve to reach out to him about all the things they both said, but he’d sure _like_ him to. So eventually he bites the bullet and texts Steve himself.

 _It just seems like you're okay with all the problems life gives you, even when there's no solution. And I don't see why that's a bad thing to think?_ Shit, that makes him sound like an asshole. Maybe he is. Quickly, he adds, _I’m just trying to understand. Not trying to start another fight or anything._

Steve responds in half an hour, but it’s just to say, _No worries :) Give me some time to find the right words._ And then the better part of three days passes before Steve finds them—during which time Bucky does his best not to worry, which is easier said than done.

The message arrives just as Bucky is waking up—so, three in the morning in New Mexico. _It’s not a bad thing to think,_ Steve says, _it's just not true. I'm angry about the problems I have, but not *at* anyone... just angry. I guess it doesn’t come out a lot, because that anger used to be a pretty toxic part of my life. I picked fights with everyone I met for a while. And honestly I’m still not totally sure what bothers me so much about what you said - I’m still thinking. I don’t know if this makes any sense, I just didn’t want to leave you hanging._

Bucky isn’t sure if it does make sense or not. He’s relieved, though, to get an answer—and it’s civil, kind even, though he knows he shouldn’t have expected anything else. _Thanks for the details,_ he types back. _It helps to hear your side of things, even if it’s still half-baked._ Fuck, texting is stupid. He doesn’t know if anything he’s saying will come across right.

The little dots pop up on Bucky’s screen a few times, but Steve doesn’t send anything else. Bucky hopes it’s because he’s gone to bed and not because he’s offended.

—

He catches Natasha after breakfast on Saturday as she’s lacing up her boots. “You need any help?” he asks. “With anything?” The look she gives him is as vague as the question. “I don’t know,” he falters, “dance stuff, anything?”

She frowns and looks away, apparently thinking. “The thing is, you don’t dance,” she begins with an apologetic lift to her voice.

“Or maybe the self-defense classes,” he offers.

She doesn’t ask Bucky why he suddenly has so much time on his hands, for which he’s immensely grateful. Instead she pulls on her coat and hands him her duffel bag. “Come on, then. I’m sure we can find something for you to do.”

He ends up folding and stacking mats in the back of the gym while Natasha demonstrates some very complicated-looking stances and moves to her class. The students don’t pay any attention to him—so little that he almost wonders if they’re used to strange men with metal arms shuffling around behind them. Which is hardly an uplifting thought.

He’s never come to one of the classes before, though Natasha’s taught them as long as he’s lived with her. From what he can glimpse of her face, she seems at ease, more casual than he would have expected with phrases like _and then you can put your fingers in their eye sockets_ coming out of her mouth. She lets the students practice on her.

There’s a break halfway through and she walks over to Bucky, cat-like on her bare feet. “Almost done with the mats?”

He nods, leaning against the stack. “What’s next?”

“Well, you could do the ones in the next room, too, if you want to make it easier for Lorraine when she comes in.” Natasha smiles when he makes a face. “Or just sort dumbbells, uh, tidy up the yoga mat closet. Or…”

“What?”

“You could help me out with a demonstration,” she suggests. “Only if you want to.”

Bucky takes a moment to respond, surprised that she’s even asking. He never would have thought, given their history—maybe she’s forgotten the shower door catastrophe, the way her nose bled when she tapped him on the shoulder from behind during the first month. Granted, all of that was over a year ago, nearly two. “You sure?”

“Fairly,” she says evenly, holding his gaze. “It’s just a couple grips, nothing dangerous. Because you’re so much bigger than me—than all of them,” she adds, and nods towards her class, milling around and chatting. “I figure we might as well use the opportunity to talk about size differences.”

“Yeah, it’s a good idea,” he allows, and tries to figure out a way to phrase this so it doesn’t sound so awful. “But are you sure that I’m the right person for it? I’m not exactly, uh, well—”

She holds up her hands. “I’m not gonna force you to do it, Barnes. But I’m not worried about getting snapped in two. I can handle it.”

He blinks. “I—I know _you_ can.” He shakes his head. “I think it’s just better if I don’t. This time, at least. Sorry.”

She smiles. “Don’t be. I just wanted to ask.” She shrugs. “And I’m not the one who has to organize the weight room, so honestly—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her away and wanders into the next room while she gathers the students again. Her voice fades as the distance increases, and then the door shuts and he can hardly hear her at all. His footsteps echo off of the shiny waxed floor. It creates a strange sensation of isolation, in the middle of this giant building, in the middle of this behemoth of a city: he feels alone.

Bucky thinks, as he has every few minutes for the past five days, about Steve. He can’t parse all the things Steve told him, can’t seem to figure out the contradictions. Does he really hold Steve up as a mental and emotional role model? The _pinnacle of psychological health?_ He doesn’t think so, no—especially considering the times he’s shaken his head over Steve pushing himself too far or putting on a brave face when he doesn’t have to.

But Steve doesn’t lie, and he’s never struck Bucky as overly-sensitive, so it must be true. The image of Steve’s face in his yellow-walled apartment— _all this time, you thought I… wow_ —pale, shocked, hurt in the set of his mouth and the skin around his eyes. No, there must be some truth to it.

And, well, now that he thinks about it, free from distraction, there is something there. It’s like he told Steve—he pulls up the messages on his screen— _It just seems like you're okay with all the problems life gives you, even when there's no solution._ Steve’s an idiot, reckless and bullheaded and definitely too impulsive for the kind of concerns he has to reckon with. But he doesn’t let those concerns stop him from shrugging and moving on, bouncing back. Even when he’s forced to confront the facts of his illness, the way Bucky’s seen again and again, it doesn’t lead to the kind of despair Bucky is so intimately familiar with. How in the world is he supposed to avoid thinking that Steve’s got it figured out?

Natasha comes to find him when the lesson is over, and looks impressed at what he’s done with the weight room. “Give me another few hours and I could fix the whole floor,” he tells her, only half-joking. It feels good to be busy—at some point the sheer physical effort of heaving weights and mats around had driven all upsetting thoughts from his mind.

But he can’t keep them at bay forever. Bucky shudders awake in the early hours of the morning, gasping and clutching at his own face in a panic. He runs his fingers obsessively over the skin of his jaw as his breathing slows until he’s certain there’s no muzzle. The rush of blood in his ears sounds like the wind. And all at once, in a leap of association that makes him want to scream, he’s back on the train and losing his footing. Grasping with wild hands for something to hold on to.

He gets out of bed and stumbles over his shoes, fetches up against the closet door and squeezes his eyes shut. “Brooklyn,” he whispers to himself, “my apartment. My room.” He can feel the hinges beneath his fingers, the rug under his feet. It helps a little.

When he goes out into the kitchen he finds Natasha sitting at the table. She looks up and raises her eyebrows. “Hey.”

“Thirsty,” he says by way of reply, and fills a glass at the faucet. He drinks half of it, then sits down across from her. “What are you doing up?”

She sighs briefly. “Just couldn’t sleep. You?”

He doesn’t want to tell her. Doesn’t want her to worry. She looks all right at the moment, tired but not haunted, doodling vaguely on some junk mail. “Same.” He takes another sip of water.

“Hey, Barnes—” She puts her pen down, props her chin on her knuckles. “I haven’t seen Steve around in a while. Everything okay with him?”

“He’s in New Mexico till next week,” Bucky tells her. Then, because she’s still looking at him: “And we—fought, I guess you could call it.” He turns his glass around and around on the table, hypnotized by the motion of the water. “We’re working on it.”

“Ah.” There’s that tone, the one he was so afraid of hearing—concerned, and now she’s leaning forward. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. But it’s all right.” He forces himself to smile. “Probably good to get stuff out in the open, you know? We both have to take some time to think.” In his own words, he hears an echo of Steve’s.

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not right now,” he says too quickly. “But thanks. Again.”

She gives him a look that isn’t a smile, exactly, but seems softer around the eyes. “What are friends for?”

A few minutes later she excuses herself and goes into her room. Bucky looks around the kitchen and the living room, which open into each other, the couch, the battered bookshelf, the cluttered counters. He can’t count how many times he’s felt himself falling apart in this space. He doesn’t know if that’s a bad thing or not—if it means he’s wallowing in it, letting his trauma fester? But living at home hadn’t helped, either, with his sister in Connecticut. Even at Steve’s he’s broken down a dozen times. Everywhere he turns, he’s faced with his own collapsing reflection.

For the last, oh, eight months, it’s been his instinct on nights like this to call Steve, who never judged, never pressed too hard. But despite what Steve said when he was at the airport, that doesn’t quite feel like an option anymore. More uncertain than it ever was before. He groans aloud and grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. It’s too late for this, or too early; in any case, he’s too tired. And with his pulse still jittering from the nightmare, there’s no question of going back to sleep.

He gets up, goes into the bathroom. Takes off his shirt and inspects the left side of his body. It’s masochistic, but it’s another thing that’s been needling him since his fight with Steve. Because—this is what started it, right? He trails his fingers over the web of scars that lace his shoulder, a strange foil to the orderly segments of the arm itself. If he presses on the skin farther in on his chest, or even on his back if he feels like contorting himself, he can trace the ridges of it inside him.

If he got it removed—what then? It’s not the prospect of living with one arm that gives him pause; he did that for long enough when he was afraid to show the metal one, he knows it would be challenging but not impossible. No, it’s a fear, deep and almost too horrible to contemplate. _If you regret it,_ Steve had suggested, hardly half a sentence, but what if he does? Worse, what if it doesn’t change anything at all?

Briefly, Bucky considers knocking on Natasha’s door, asking for her opinion. But she’s tired and it’s late and he doesn’t know how he would even start. The exhaustion weighs on his bones like a mountain.

—

Four days later, Steve comes back to New York. Bucky knows because he counted, not because Steve contacts him. Nearly twenty-four hours tick by before the phone rings. As before, Bucky picks up in a flurry of nervous energy. “Hi,” he says.

“Hey, Buck.” His slightly-fuzzy voice is more of a relief than Bucky knew a sound could be—deep and deliberate, a little tired as usual. “You busy?”

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Bucky says, shoving away his laptop, on which he’s been compulsively refreshing his email, unsure whether or not he even wants a response from the surgeons. “I guess, uh—you got sick of texting, huh?”

Steve chuckles. “You could say that,” he says. “Mostly I just wanted to hear your voice. You know.”

“Oh.” It’s nearly overwhelming, the sudden rush of joy and longing. “Yeah,” Bucky says, and he knows his smile colors the word. “I know.”

“How are things?” Steve asks then, a little tentatively. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” Bucky says automatically, then amends it. “All right. I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said in your text.”

Horrifyingly, Steve sighs. “Yeah, me too,” he says. There’s a pause. “I want to—explain better. But I don’t know what to say.”

Bucky bites his lip. “I can say something, then. In the meantime.” He taps his fingernails on the table, like a Morse code plea for help. “I don’t think that _I_ think you’re—you know, completely unaffected by anything. That you don’t have your own problems. I don’t think you’re perfect,” he fumbles, still not quite sure where he’s going. “But you—just make it seem so easy.”

“Make what seem easy?”

 _“Not_ being okay,” Bucky says. “You always know what to say. Or how to react to fucked-up shit in a way that makes it—not not-fucked, but bearable, you know?”

Steve interrupts, not harshly but with some surprise. “That’s just being a good person. A good friend.”

“No,” Bucky says, “I don’t mean stuff you say to me—well, that too, but—the way you talk about yourself. Like those jokes about dying young, and not making a fuss about not being able to walk far, and—when I think about me, where I am, I see a difference. A big one.”

For several moments, Steve is quiet. “Because you don’t joke about the hard parts?” he asks.

“Because I can’t even imagine it,” Bucky tells him. “I don’t—I’d have to get so much better to be able to do that, and I don’t know when that’ll happen, how to get there, any of it.”

“And...” Steve speaks slowly, as if he’s testing the words as he says them. “And you think I am there. Wherever ‘there’ is.”

“Well, yeah,” Bucky says, unsure of what else he _can_ say. “You say you’re not, but I don’t see that.”

Steve pauses again. “Then what do y—” He breaks off and says something unintelligible, clearly meant for someone else. They must respond, because he speaks again and then returns to the phone. “Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to go,” Steve says. “Fuck, sorry. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky says helplessly, and the call ends. Bucky looks at his phone as if the blinking timestamp will give him answers—tell him whether or not he’s just made things worse, or why he can’t seem to make his thoughts align into coherent words. It’s just shitty luck, he tells himself, that Steve had to hang up. And he pretty much believes it. But it’s still some kind of hell, not knowing what Steve thinks and having no way to figure it out until they talk again. Which probably won’t be until—

Fuck. The wedding.

—

Bucky can’t say he’d forgotten about it, exactly, but the wedding seems to exist on another plane from his current existence. Is he really still expected to go? Probably, if Steve meant what he said on the phone—but that was nearly a month ago, and in the interim things have only grown more complicated. Does Steve want to spend time with him right now? Hearing his voice is one thing, but that call was perilously close to another argument. He understands now what Natasha meant when she asked him if she should attend.

He’s on the point of tracking down Peggy or Angie to ask whether or not they want him there when he gets a text from Steve. It’s a picture of a pale blue suit on a hanger. _My best man suit._ Another message follows shortly after: _You have anything in that color?_

It puts a strange pit in Bucky’s stomach. _Do we have to match?_

There’s more of a pause before Steve replies this time. _Not necessarily._

Bucky doesn’t know if the situation is really as delicate as it feels to him, but in his deliberation he types out four half-responses and deletes all of them. He finally just goes to his room and pulls out his own suit, which needs ironing, and sends a picture of it to Steve. _This is all I’ve got._

_Looks great!_

Bucky chuckles. It’s not really funny—just surreal that all they’re talking about is clothes and not the fact that—wait. _Why were you asking?_ When Steve doesn’t answer in two minutes, he runs a hand through his hair and sends a follow-up. _Are we going as a couple?_

 _We don’t need to walk down the aisle together,_ comes Steve’s reply, _but the invitation was for both of us. And I’m game if you are._

And he’s right: Bucky remembers now. Fuck, fuck, fuck. So he does have to go, and he has to go with Steve, and they’ll have to spend the evening together and who knows what else. The thought makes him more anxious than is probably reasonable, and yet—Bucky feels no closer to an answer, to _figuring things out,_ than he was when they last spoke. For all their unfinished conversations, they haven’t come face-to-face since the fight. What the hell are they supposed to say to one another? What is he supposed to do with his _hands?_

February sixteenth dawns clear and damp, a resurgence of the winter chill biting in the air. It’s with a sickening sense of foreboding that Bucky puts on his own suit and checks, in vain, for texts from Steve. Then Natasha emerges and smiles a little too knowingly as they leave the apartment. He sets his jaw.

Tony and Pepper pick them up in the convertible despite the cold weather since the wedding is in Astoria. Bucky is grateful for the ride, but by the time they arrive everyone’s eyes are streaming from the wind. He wipes his face on his sleeve when he steps out of the car, nearly stumbles on the curb—looks up, and sees Steve coming outside to greet them.

For all the time Bucky’s spent missing Steve, the sight of him hits like an electric shock, as if he’d forgotten precisely the shape he makes in the world. “Right on time,” Steve says, smiling at the three of them—Pepper is parking the car—and his eyes don’t linger on Bucky, but his glance flickers briefly in his direction again and again. “Clint’s already here,” he tells Natasha. “You guys ready to go in?”

The venue, it turns out, is a small, nearly-defunct theater. Bucky remembers hearing that Angie had picked it out, and he has to admit, looking at the decorations and lighting, that it works extremely well. Strings of lights hang from the ceiling, the edge of the stage is littered with lilies, and even the boxes have been draped in thin garlands of ribbons. The whole place has a soft glow, not dim but simply muted, gilding everyone and everything. Steve walks next to Bucky, his hand swinging at an angle that Bucky thinks might be an invitation to hold it—or not. But the distance between them is no farther than it ever was. “Seating is totally arbitrary,” Steve informs all of them once Pepper catches up. Clint appears from the sizeable crowd and takes Natasha’s hand. “I gotta go, there’s—you know, a million moving parts—but I’m so glad you’re all here.” This time he does smile at Bucky before turning away, just for him.

And then he’s gone again, leaving Bucky missing the agonizing awkwardness of his presence. “Come sit with us,” Clint suggests. Bucky wonders how much of it is written on his face.

He wonders that a lot, as they pick out chairs and other people fill in the seats around them, a few recognizable from the gallery but most strangers. It’s not a rational thing to speculate about, but he finds himself sitting lower in his seat, tucking his left arm as deep into his pocket as it will go. It’s a relief when the lights go down and he can be reasonably sure that no one is looking at him.

The lights dim another few notches, but music begins to play and the stage lights turn on, creating a hazy spotlight. The officiant takes her place in the middle of a circle of more lily petals, and the entire audience turns expectantly as one towards the back of the theater. The processional is, again, mostly people that Bucky has never seen before, all wearing outfits incorporating the same pale blue of Steve’s suit. Four pairs go by arm in arm. And then Peggy appears accompanied by Steve, both of them beaming. Everyone stands: her smile grows, and Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if she started radiating light. She’s not holding a bouquet, but there’s a boutonnière on the lapel of her deep blue suit, a lily to match the rest of the scene.

And she does match. Everything does. Despite his general sense of wrong-footedness, Bucky is swept along in the murmuring of everyone around him, the brilliant and obvious joy on Peggy’s face as she pauses beside the first row of seats and kisses Steve’s cheek before he steps off to one side. She waits there for Angie, who walks down the aisle in a simple white dress with a woman Bucky doesn’t know, giving her a hug when they reach Peggy. Then the two brides take each other’s hand and take the last few steps toward the officiant together.

The officiant, in turn, welcomes them all. “Today is a celebration,” she says, “of commitment, devotion, respect, and mutual trust. In one word: love.” Natasha shifts her weight beside Bucky. “Many have said that love is the great equalizer. It touches every person, brings hearts and souls together no matter who we are or what we believe. But those who love deeply, as Peggy and Angie do, know that it is so much more than a unifier. Love highlights differences as well—the places where two people don’t match up perfectly, stubbornness, perfectionism, bluntness. A refusal to do the dishes.” There’s general laughter, and Angie raises one eyebrow at Peggy, who shakes her head, also laughing.

“Love doesn’t do away with these differences, the flaws that are part of who we are, the insecurities and weaknesses that shape what we believe. Nothing can smooth those things away, and we might not like the other person so much after all once such a change had taken place. No, love does something far more magical: it inspires us to try to become the person our partner deserves, and to accept their imperfections and shortcomings along with the aspects we treasure the most, secure in the faith that they will extend the same grace to us.

“Those who love deeply are able to take comfort in this grace, and then they can build on it, achieving and creating things that would never have been possible on their own. Marriage is a formal affirmation of the strength and possibility that such love yields. It is a promise to build together.” At the cue, Peggy and Angie, still facing each other, take one another’s hands in both of their own. “Now is the time to give voice to that promise,” the officiant says, “in the words that Peggy and Angie have chosen for each other.”

It’s Angie who speaks first. “Margaret Elizabeth Carter,” she says, and then breathes out. From his seat, Bucky can see her grip on Peggy’s hands tighten. “Peggy.” She smiles. “I vow to love you as you love me, through all hardship, darkness, and pain. I promise you my unconditional compassion, tenderness, and undying devotion. For years I loved you in silence, and now I promise to sing it every day for the rest of our lives. Peggy, I vow to support, cherish, and care for you in all the ways I know how.” And she slides a ring onto Peggy’s finger.

A few seconds pass before Peggy speaks, long enough that Bucky wonders, fleetingly, if she may have forgotten her lines. Then she says, “Angela Marie Martinelli,” and her voice is audibly choked. It’s something of a shock—he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her sound anything but cool and collected, and often a bit sharp. She continues, the words coming slowly. “I vow to grow with you and learn from you. I promise to show you patience, generosity, and dignity, and to believe in you with every breath I take. Angie.” She hesitates again, and Bucky can’t quite see her face, but he’s sure she’s fighting back tears. Yet when she speaks, her voice is steadier. “All the years ahead of us seem brighter when I think of sharing them with you. I vow to value, comfort, and sustain you through all of them, one beautiful day at a time.”

By the time Peggy’s finished, there’s hardly a tremor at all. Bucky cranes his neck to watch her put her ring on Angie’s finger, but what his gaze catches on is Angie’s face, absolutely luminous in her delight. “By the powers vested in me by the state of New York,” the officiant says, beaming at both of them, “I now pronounce you married.” She pauses, letting the moment settle in the room. “You may kiss your wife.”

The crowd erupts around Bucky, and he applauds too as Angie and Peggy embrace, the ring on Angie’s finger glinting in the spotlight, and laughs out loud along with everyone else when Peggy dips her. Angie clings as they stand upright again, and together they raise their joined hands above their heads, euphoric, exultant.

They hurry back down the aisle in a shower of red, yellow, and pink flower petals, and Bucky, cheering, squints upward to see people tipping buckets from the box seats and balcony. They create dappled shadows, fall in his eyes, fill the air with sunset-colored velvet. Brush his cheeks gently, the sweet celebratory music made material. When he blinks his vision clear, he’s missed the rest of the recessional: Steve is nowhere to be seen.

Everyone files out into the theater lobby for a few minutes, forming a loose line to give their best wishes to Angie and Peggy, and when they’re allowed back into the house the seats have been cleared away and replaced by tables fringing the dance floor. Bucky follows Clint and Natasha to a table, crushing leftover petals underfoot. He’s very aware of how close Natasha is to Clint, everything about them exuding romance: as he sits with them, Clint says something in her ear and she smiles, glancing at him and away. “Did you see a bar out there?” she asks Bucky, leaning over the table towards him.

“There’s beer and wine,” he tells her. “I don’t know if—” But she’s already getting up, giving him a grateful pat on the shoulder as she goes.

He looks to Clint, bemused. Clint meets his gaze, frowning slightly, and opens his mouth to say something. He breaks off when Pepper falls into the seat on Bucky’s other side. “There are petals in your hair,” she tells Bucky.

He shakes his head and brushes them out with his fingers. “What’s with all the lilies?”

“They’re good luck, supposedly,” she replies. “Not very traditional, but then—well, neither of them has ever had much patience for tradition.”

“How do you mean?” Bucky asks. He can imagine, given their general demeanor, but he doesn’t have any actual examples.

Pepper grins. “Angie proposed by inviting Peggy out dancing, and then she tripped over her own high heels and fractured her ankle. Oh, and they didn’t have the money for a ring at the time, so for a few weeks Peggy wore some bent paper clips.” She shrugs. “And having your best man as your ex isn’t exactly common.”

The mention of Steve, even in passing, is a jolt. Bucky can’t resist looking around to catch sight of him, but he’s not there: the wedding party must still be taking pictures. “And they scheduled their wedding for February,” he adds to cover up his search.

“That too,” Peggy says, nodding. She looks around as Natasha comes back with four bottles of beer. “How’d you know I was here?”

Natasha passes out the bottles. “I figured. Tony’s in the middle of an argument with one of Peggy’s friends.”

Pepper rolls her eyes. “I know who it is. I don’t think it’ll turn into a scene, don’t worry.”

“That German doctor, right?” Clint’s smile is knowing as he untwists the bottle cap. “You remember that time—”

Bucky gets up, excusing himself with a mumble that’s barely intelligible even to him. It doesn’t matter; the music and general chatter is loud enough that no one pays much attention, and he walks away too purposefully for anyone to call him back. Despite his stride, he doesn’t really know where he’s going, and veers away from the bar when he sees Tony still talking there, waving his hands at an old man who is gesticulating right back. Then he winds up caught at a random table when the music changes: accompanied by sudden applause, Peggy and Angie re-emerge and walk out onto the dance floor.

The song they’ve chosen is old-fashioned jazz, big-band swing music that is the last thing Bucky expected—but Pepper was right, it’s as unorthodox as everything else. Watching the two of them quick-step in perfect tandem, he considers the rest of what Pepper said. He’d almost forgotten that Steve and Peggy ever dated. But Steve told him about it the first time they met, and Bucky remembers being confused for a while about how anyone could be so supremely unaffected, having been passed over by someone and still having to watch them with someone else day in and day out. If you still loved them, he’d thought, it should be nigh-on impossible, or at least painful.

Peggy’s head is thrown back as she twirls, laughing, Angie’s hands light on her waist. The ache in Bucky’s chest eases somewhat when they turn and he sees the expression on Angie’s face, too. He thinks he might understand now. If you still love them, you want them to be happy, even if it’s not with you.

“The next song doesn’t require so much coordination,” says a voice at Bucky’s elbow, and he jumps out of his skin not because the speaker is so close, but because the speaker is Steve. Steve, who is watching the newlyweds but who glances at Bucky out of the corner of his eye. “Or energy. Would you, um, like to dance?”

The question is unexpected, but Bucky figures it really shouldn’t be. Steve is the best man, after all; he’s got to dance with someone. And the invitation was for both of them. Of course he’s asking Bucky. “You sure?”

The song is already fading out. Steve gives him a small smile. “If you want to.”

God, he does. He doesn’t know if it’s a good idea, with the way things may or may not stand between them, but he really does want to. “Sure.”

The next song turns out to be slower, as Steve promised. At least four or five other couples take the floor as well, so the two of them don’t attract any notice. Still, Bucky has a small crisis in figuring out whether or not he should lead.

“I’ll step on your feet either way,” Steve tells him when he keeps hesitating. “Pick what you’re comfortable with.”

So Bucky leads, one hand holding Steve’s, the other on his back. Simple, at least in theory. “Aren’t Peggy and Angie supposed to be dancing with their parents now?” he asks.

“Traditionally,” Steve admits, and Bucky wonders if he overheard the previous conversation. “It’s not really an option for them, though.” As promised, he trips a little, and they wind up closer than before.

He doesn’t elaborate, and Bucky doesn’t ask. He thinks of something Steve said during their fight: _I’m not gonna put my shit on them any more than I have to. It’s not like they can—_ Not like they can what? In the past month he’s played and replayed all of that conversation in his head a hundred times, they’ve even rehashed it together, and there are still so many things he doesn’t really understand. And now Steve is here, practically in his arms, so why can’t he speak up and ask?

“How was your week?” Steve asks before he can, as casually as anything.

Bucky strives to match his tone. “Not bad.” He casts about for more detail and comes up empty-handed. “Yours?”

“Oh, fine,” Steve says. “Busy.”

“Right.” The wedding. And the festival—he realizes he never actually asked. “How was New Mexico?” Dancing with Steve, he’s discovering as they make a slow revolution, isn’t like dancing with anyone else. There’s the scoliosis, for one, which puts a unique swing in each step, but that’s only part of it. A charge to the press of his hands, like a magnetic force between their bodies, flipping back and forth between attraction and repulsion.

Steve’s eyes light up. “God. Amazing.”

“So everything’s good to go for the festival?”

“Full steam ahead.” Steve grins at him. “There’s gonna be some absolutely incredible artists putting their work in the gallery. I mean, it’s only a fraction of what’s on display, but there’s gonna be stuff scattered all around the city—it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And not just ‘cause it’s good for business, it’s—” He stops, gives a self-conscious chuckle. “It’s incredible,” he repeats.

“You deserve it,” Bucky tells him earnestly. He means it. And he can’t wait to see how it all turns out—but when he actually thinks about the festival, he doesn’t know what he’s imagining. He’d always intended to be there, to help out as much as Steve would allow or at least to admire the artwork and offer his encouragement. Now, despite how relaxed and candid Steve’s being, Bucky isn’t sure whether or not he really ought to go. If it wouldn’t do more harm than good.

It’s another sting in a night that has been thoroughly bittersweet so far. He steers them carefully between the other couples and finds himself smiling at Steve, unable to help it. As if they hadn’t spent any time apart. Something about the feeling of holding him, of just being close, and with the music winding around and between them—

Steve’s own smile softens into something uncertain. The hand on Bucky’s shoulder shifts almost imperceptibly. “I wanted to say,” he begins softly, “what we were talking about before, on the phone…”

“Yeah?”

“I guess I just don’t understand,” Steve says, sighing a little. “But—I want to. I want to know where you’re coming from.”

Well, that makes two of them. The confusion and the curiosity both. “I mean, it’s...” Bucky pauses, trying to find words he hasn’t already used, ones that will make more sense to Steve and to himself. “When you—when things get hard, when you have setbacks. I don’t see that.”

“You’ve seen me get migraines,” Steve points out. “You came to visit me in the hospital.”

“And you spent the whole time telling us all not to worry, that you were fine.”

“Well, what else am I gonna say?” Steve asks, a half-smile on his lips. “Am I supposed to cry about it?”

There’s a defensiveness to his tone that surprises Bucky. “I just meant that you make it _look_ like you’ve got it all worked out.”

“Yeah, but—c’mon, Buck.” They’re revolving slowly, other couples dancing contentedly around them, yet Bucky can feel Steve’s back tense under his hand. “You’ve got your own things to deal with. Everyone does. I can’t put all of this on you—it wouldn’t be fair—”

“Maybe I want it put on me,” Bucky challenges. “Maybe I want to see it.” Or—or even if _want_ isn’t quite right, maybe he needs to.

Steve isn’t frowning at him anymore. He looks stunned, almost angry in his bewilderment, with his eyes wide. Then—Bucky watches the change, so clear that it must be deliberate—his jaw relaxes, the muscles of his shoulders softening. He lets out a measured breath. “Can we talk about this later?” he asks. “I—I’ve missed you. And we’re at a wedding,” he says, another, gentler smile on his face now, “and I guess I just don’t want to argue tonight.”

Bucky looks at him, sees him awash in the soft lights. The sweet openness of his expression, the crinkling of his eyes and the tiny shadows his lashes cast on his cheeks. “All right,” he says. “I missed you, too.” He feels the blunt impact of that statement in the hollow of his chest, striking something vital and true. And they’re so close now, so warm in each other’s arms.

Steve’s gaze travels over his face with a warm, tender slowness. “I didn’t even know you could dance,” he says. His hair is turned to filigree by the golden light.

“I could say the same about you,” Bucky replies, and he thinks there must be an ocean of things that would make them strangers to each other, though a month ago he’d have laughed at the thought. But—they aren’t strangers, are they? Steve leans into him as they turn, his head coming down to Bucky’s shoulder. And Bucky holds him closer, lets him rest there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	13. Chapter 13

On something of a whim, some inclination he can’t really explain, Bucky goes to the Met. He picks a morning when he isn’t scheduled to work and makes the walk in the frigid February morning. “Just one ticket,” he says to the person behind the counter. They hand him the paper and he refuses to feel lonely.

But that doesn’t stop him from going back, like a picking at a scab, to the European painting collection, and he finds himself standing again in front of the painting of the old woman. Her face half in shadow, head bowed above those knobby shoulders. The wrinkled skin and puckered mouth. What was it that Steve said? Something about feeling old. Contemplating how much time you have left.

And then he’d said he was tired. Looking at the woman now, Bucky feels it too, as if the weight of all her years is resting on him. And he knows it’s just his imagination, but he sits down on the bench in the middle of the room anyways. The marble is cool under his palm.

He wonders: had Steve just been tired, as he’d claimed all those months ago, or was it something more? Had he been feeling fatigued that day, or ill, or was he sore in any one of his many aching joints? Now, Bucky would ask, knowing what he does. But at that time they had barely even been friends and a question like that had seemed excruciatingly risky. And Steve had always seemed so sure, so unflappable. A little fragile, but not in danger of actually breaking.

But then there’s also—well, he remembers what Peggy said, that afternoon in the hospital. _You clearly don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about._ Because he’d thought—what? That everyone else was in some way healthier than he was. That Steve was healthier. And that bothers Steve, even though, by his own admission, the way he downplays things is intentional.

It puts a faint crawling sensation under his skin, a bit uncomfortable. And he doesn’t know what to do about it, just sitting here on a bench, so he gets up and stalks off.

He heads for the abstract art because he has a faint memory of Steve saying that he liked it. He can’t deny a certain feeling of skepticism, looking around at the strange and meaningless geometry, the riot of colors without any discernible meaning, thinking: _I could do that._ Which he knows is beside the point, since he would never think to create it. And then he has to smile. It looks like Steve managed to teach him something after all.

Bucky’s gaze is caught by [one piece in particular](https://www.moma.org/learn/moma_learning/lee-krasner-untitled-1949/), a dark canvas covered in a thick almost-pattern of lines and symbols. It’s untitled, so there’s no help from that quarter; desperately, he stares at the shapes, trying to glean some sense from the way they blur when his eyes lose focus. He picks out something that looks like a skull here, what might be a bird there, but nothing that makes it all fall into line.

On the other wall is a collection of red circles; in the next room over he can see a patchwork of earth-colored squares. Some of the paintings look like the artist just threw colors haphazardly at the canvas and then walked around on top of it. Bucky wishes Steve were here to ask—just what the hell does he find so fascinating about it? They had agreed to visit the Met together, even, so he could really explain. But it all feels a little different now.

God, Bucky thinks, standing aimlessly in the center of the gallery, he’s losing it. Absolutely pathetic. He pulls out his phone and calls Clint.

—

“So let me get this straight,” Clint says four days later, leaning against the side of his car, “you want to use my motorcycle, but you don’t know how to ride it.”

“I know how,” Bucky says, “I’m just out of practice. And I don’t want to use it right away, I just want to make sure it’s okay.”

Clint shrugs. “Kind of mysterious, but sure.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key with a charm shaped like an arrow, and hands it to Bucky, who takes it with a flicker of unease. A look at Clint’s expression says he can see it on Bucky’s face. “Can I ask, uh, why?” he says.

“Well, I don’t really do cars,” Bucky says, “as you know.” Clint flashes him a grin. “So I thought a bike might work better.”

Clint chews on that for a second, then says, “I have another question. Why’d it take you this long to think of it?”

The truth is in Bucky’s hands: the horror of the traffic, the obstruction of the helmet, the fear that he isn’t ready for this, either. But he says, “‘Cause I’m an idiot. And I forgot you had the bike, to be honest.” So it’s only half a lie.

Like he can tell, Clint laughs. “You wanna get dinner?” he says suddenly. “Since we’re out here already. I know a great place just a block over.”

The day is blustery and the sky threatens sleet, so Bucky agrees. They wind up at a tiny place that might have come right out of the forties, warm and smelling like sauce, and Bucky is pleasantly surprised, having doubts about trusting Clint to determine what qualifies as _great._ They get a booth next to one of the frosted windows. “It’s five o’clock,” he observes, watching Clint order a black coffee.

“Fuck you,” Clint shoots back, with a quick flash of a grin.

They make small talk until Clint’s coffee comes, then order food, Bucky getting whatever Clint does. He’s not sure if Clint had a purpose in inviting him to dinner, but he takes his time getting to the point if he did: they talk about newspaper headlines, plans for when the weather gets nicer—safe topics that amount to practically nothing.

Their food comes, and the conversation slows. Clint orders another coffee. Bucky notices circles under his eyes, which he’d taken at first to be a trick of the low light in the restaurant. But Clint himself seems to barely notice Bucky now; he’s preoccupied, not eating so much as frowning at his plate. “So, uh,” he says finally, “I guess it’s kind of lucky that you wanted to meet up, ‘cause I’ve been—meaning to talk to you about something.”

His tone puts Bucky on edge more than anything else he’s said or done. “Okay,” Bucky says cautiously.

“I don’t even know if you’re the right person to ask,” Clint says, “or I guess—I mean, maybe I shouldn’t even ask at all, I don’t know.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Gonna make me sound awful, but—do you know if things have been… _worse_ for Nat lately?”

“For Natasha?” Bucky echoes, trying not to sound as floored as he is.

“Yeah,” Clint says. He’s clearly uncomfortable, but he meets Bucky’s gaze. “Has she been having a rough time? Rougher than usual?”

Bucky bites his lip, not sure how to answer. He remembers what Natasha told him after the first time he tried to get over his car trigger, how he had been so afraid that she’d told Clint everything, and how easily she’d assuaged that fear. He wants to help, wants to know what Clint is talking about, but how much can he say without giving away secrets that aren’t his? What would Natasha want him to do? What would be best for her? He’s not at all sure that those two questions have the same answer.

When Bucky keeps hesitating, Clint breaks the silence. “I—look, I don’t think I even know a third of what—what happened to her, and that’s not what I’m asking. But I’m worried about her; I just want to know if there’s something I can do to make things easier.”

“What do you mean?” Bucky asks. He’s not really sure what kind of advice Clint is looking for; to his knowledge, there wasn’t a specific problem that needed fixing. Things have been strange between them, but he’s chalked that up to a combination of his own insecurities and things that probably have nothing to do with him.

“Well, it’s hard to say,” Clint says, back to turning his coffee cup round and round on the table. “She seems okay, mostly, but there’s something off—something she’s not saying. She’s so quiet, she barely looks at me anymore.” He makes a face. “I know I should ask her, and I’ve tried, but every time I try she backs out of the conversation somehow—and I have some experience, you know, with depression and disability and stuff”—he gestures vaguely to his hearing aids—“but I just think I’m totally out of my depth here. And I only met her, what, a year ago?” He shrugs. “And you guys are roommates, so I figured…”

“No, it makes sense.” Bucky sighs. “She does the same thing with me—you know, avoiding the question, deflecting. But I don’t know if I’m the right person, either.”

“Really?” Clint asks, incredulous.

Bucky sighs through his nose. “I mean, she’s not around much these days, to be honest. You probably see her more than I do. She hasn’t spent two nights at home since—God, it must’ve been before Christmas. You spent New Year with her and everything—”

Clint interrupts, suddenly sitting up straight. “New Year’s Eve? No, she was with you.”

“N-no.” Bucky frowns. “She walked in on me and Steve on the first, mid-afternoon. She said she’d been at your place.” He pauses at the look Clint gives him and thinks back. “Wait. No. I asked her about you, and she didn’t even answer.” He’s starting to feel really worry, a leaden weight gathering in his gut.

“She told me she spent the evening at your apartment.” Clint’s brows draw together and he literally scratches his head. It would be comical if the revelation weren’t so alarming. “So if she wasn’t with either of us—where was she?”

Where was she? And where is she now, Bucky wonders, thinking back on the days he woke up to an empty apartment, solitary afternoons and missed work shifts. “Fuck,” he says aloud.

“I don’t know why she’d lie,” Clint says, shaking his head. “Obviously it’s—I mean, it’s her business where she goes, she’s an adult, and she doesn’t really like to share anyways, you know, plays it pretty close to the chest, but I never thought…”

“Should we ask her about it?” Bucky can’t imagine how that conversation would go.

Clint purses his lips. “Because that’s gone so well in the past.”

And Bucky has to admit, he has a point. “Then what?” he asks. “We can’t keep tabs on her, that’d be awful. But I don’t know how to help.”

Clint sighs. “I know I’ve said it before,” he says, “but I guess we just have to keep looking out for her. Letting her know that we care however we can.”

“I suppose.” But Bucky can’t help wondering—and he sees the same question on Clint’s face—what if that isn’t enough?

—

He walks home with his head a swirling mess, confused and concerned, and arrives at a predictably empty apartment. But it’s a Wednesday night, and usually Natasha spends Wednesdays at home in order to teach in the morning. So she’ll be back soon.

Except she isn’t. Bucky resists the urge to text Clint at ten o’clock and ask if she’s with him, and instead checks his email. That sends panic of a different sort coursing through his system: right at the top is an email from the surgical practice, which he’s hardly thought of at all since before the wedding. He remembers now, though, that his arm and the surgery and the overwhelming, gaping possibility are really what started this whole thing. Or was that just the straw that broke the camel’s back?

The email itself, when he finally works up the courage to open it, doesn’t say too much. Some Dr. Erskine thanks him for his interest and encourages him to read the attached informational files, which look like a slightly more thorough version of the brochure Sam gave him. Erskine also suggests that he come to their practice to get his questions answered more fully, though he also provides his number if Bucky would prefer a phone call.

As usual, Bucky doesn’t know what he would prefer. Or if he’s interested at all. He never ceases to be amazed, in a way that feels distant from the rest of his brain, that he can be so conflicted about this—desperate to be rid of the arm, yet practically unable to comprehend the thought. The contradiction makes him so anxious that he gets up from his computer, walks away, winds up hunched over on the couch. Where the hell is Natasha? And what the fuck is wrong with both of them?

No wonder Steve didn’t want to help him decide. It comes to Bucky in a burst of clarity. He can barely think about this on his own; forcing Steve to make any kind of choice would be tantamount to dragging him down with Bucky, and— _if you regret it,_ Steve said. Bucky imagines it briefly, waking up in some drugged haze, several pounds lighter but still heavy with guilt. Still feeling broken. And no way out, no miraculous solution.

He’s interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall, and then he hears a key in the lock. Bucky is on his feet before the door is fully open, not sure what he plans on saying, but he just wants to see her—make sure she’s in one piece. Natasha stops in the doorway, gazing at him as he gazes at her from his position caught with the couch between him and the door, and he can tell from one look that she’s not in one piece, not at all.

It’s the cut over her eye that’s the most visibly distressing. The blood runs down the side of her face, not a lot, but enough to jolt Bucky towards her. “Romanoff, what—?” His pulse pounds, his skin shivers; it’s the confirmation of all his fears, and his body rebels against it.

“I fell down,” she says, taking a step backwards, keeping the distance between them even. She reaches out and clutches the back of the kitchen chair as if to steady herself, and when Bucky keeps going, she holds out her other hand, palm towards him. “Don’t—”

Bucky stops. With the lights half-on and the blazing night outside the windows, he can’t make out much beyond the cut, and she turns her face from him like she doesn’t want him to try. “Romanoff,” he tries again, “what happened?”

“Nothing,” she says, and repeats: “I fell. On the sidewalk. I’ll be fine.”

It feels like a script they’ve rehearsed and played for each other dozens of times, one he’s just now realizing was a fiction. Bucky’s never seen anyone who looks less fine. But like Clint said, he doesn’t know how to voice his concern—and he’s well beyond concern now—without putting her on the defensive, like an animal that might be spooked, or maybe like a bomb with a trigger he can’t see.

As he watches, she looks back to him. “I thought you’d be in bed. It’s almost eleven.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “What time were you planning on sleeping?” But that’s not the way to do this, and he can see in the set of her jaw that it was the wrong thing to say. “I’m losing my mind over here,” he says hesitantly, trying somehow to make her understand that all he wants is to understand, so that he can help.

But she laughs, a short burst of caustic energy. “You?” she says. _“You’re_ losing your m—?” She breaks off with a violent turning of her head, looking away again. “I can’t,” she breathes, and Bucky thinks it might not be meant for him to hear. “Can’t do it anymore.” She sounds close to tears.

“Hey.” He makes his voice as soft as he can in lieu of moving closer. “What can’t you do?”

Natasha reacts to his quiet question in a burst of flashing eyes. “I can’t be here anymore! I can’t do it, I can’t _fucking_ handle it!” Her hand slices through the air. “If I spend one more day here it might kill me, Barnes.”

He gapes at her. In his head is a fuzzy, static shock. “Why?”

“Because I—because everywhere I look, things are good,” she half-shouts, “and you have Steve and there was the—the wedding, and everyone’s looking to the future, but I’m”—she sucks in a breath—“still stuck in fucking Russia and I don’t think I’m ever going to get out.” Her gaze scorches a hole in him. “I can’t live with the pressure.”

“The pressure?” Bucky echoes. “From—me?”

She waves a hand. “Not just you. But do you know what it’s like?” Beneath the anger, there’s a thread in her voice of something he can’t identify, something that’s frightening to hear. “I know you don’t have it all together, either, but—you’re just doing so much _better,_ and everyone just—recovers and moves on, and I can’t be the only one who doesn’t.” She’s not yelling anymore. As Bucky watches, stunned, she falls into the chair at the table and sits staring at nothing. There are no tears in her eyes. There’s nothing in her eyes but pain.

A second passes while Bucky works up the nerve to go to her. In that second, he feels stifling, crippling doubt: maybe he can’t do this. Maybe he isn’t the person she needs, maybe he will make it worse. He swallows that down. There’s no one here but him. He walks forward, comes around the couch, tries to make his body small although she’s not even looking at him. Barely seems to notice. “You’re not the only one,” he says when it’s just the table between them. “I thought—for the longest time, I thought _you_ were the one who’d recovered.”

“Yeah, well, that was the plan,” she says, and her gaze flickers to him and away. “And it worked. Till now.” One corner of her mouth lifts in a bitter smile. “Guess I just couldn’t keep it together.”

“But you don’t have to,” he protests.

She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “What’s the alternative?”

“You—” He blinks. “Let me help you.”

“Barnes.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, nearly cold. “You can’t help me if you still need to help yourself.”

“Yes, I can,” he insists, “or I want to, at least. I—God, Romanoff, I’m a mess, too, but I—I don’t think I’d feel so hopeless about it if I knew I could do something good with it. And—wouldn’t it be better for you, too? You don’t have to—”

“What?” she says in a cracked whisper. “You’d like it better if I woke you up screaming every night? Had—breakdowns over breakfast? I can’t do that; you—you’d worry about me, and you shouldn’t—”

“I already do worry about you,” he points out quietly. “And you’re having a breakdown right now. What’s the point of pretending?”

She turns wide eyes on him, guarded but desperate. Beseeching. “I need to be strong,” she says. “I don’t know what else to be.”

His heart breaks for her. It strikes him, in a removed way, as remarkable—he’d thought he was the one in need of comfort, the one who needed the most help. The one not moving on, as she’d said. And here she was, suffering along with him the whole time. Neither of them speaking about it. Each afraid to be the one who couldn’t cope, and each coping worse because of it. “How about a friend?” he suggests. “Friends help each other, right?” He offers her a smile, though he’s pretty sure it trembles. “If I can help you, I will.”

Natasha looks away again, but it’s not the hard gaze she had before. Her eyes slowly trace the grain of the table and her lips twitch as if she wants to say something, but she stays silent. Her hands lie quiet in her lap.

Bucky lets her be for several long minutes. “Can I help with your forehead?” he asks eventually.

As if she’s forgotten, Natasha startles and raises her fingers to the cut, then looks blankly at the blood when she pulls her hand away. “I did fall,” she says, almost insistently.

“I believe you,” he replies.

After a moment, she gets up from the chair and goes into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Bucky hesitates briefly and then follows her, standing outside the room and watching as she dabs at her face with a paper towel. There’s silence except for the drip of water in the sink. It turns out the cut isn’t very big, and it doesn’t look as horrifying once the rest of the blood is washed away. Bucky feels the tension ebb somewhat from his body as the pinkish water swirls down the drain, and he thinks, or maybe hopes, he can see a similar slow relaxation in Natasha’s shoulders.

At length, she lets her hand fall and grips the edge of the sink. Their eyes meet in the mirror. “Does it scare you?” she asks quietly, her tone carefully neutral. “When you think of how far you have to go until you’re okay?”

Bucky looks down. His left arm shines. “Scares me shitless,” he confesses. “But I don’t think there’s an end destination, you know?”

“That’s not really helpful,” she says dryly.

“I know.” He shrugs, sighs. “Sorry. I’m not exactly a beacon of hope when it comes to this stuff. Just trying to figure it out, same as you.”

In the mirror, she nearly smiles. “You make it look pretty easy sometimes.”

“Just a trick of the light.” Bucky watches as she raises the damp towel to her forehead again with a wince. He knows this is probably the most she’ll allow: that he sees her vulnerable and quite literally bleeding, that he hears her voice in the moments when she can’t manage to control how it sounds. He still doesn’t know the whole story, but he doesn’t need to as long as she lets him be here. Something eases in his chest, infection draining from a wound.

—

“Well, Bucky,” Sam says, closing the door behind him and settling into his chair. “It’s been a while, huh? How are you doing?”

 _Stupid question,_ Bucky thinks, but it’s almost routine at this point. He wonders if other people feel the same way about it—can anyone really give an honest answer? “I’m doing all right,” he says. “A lot’s happened.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Bucky gets the feeling from the way Sam’s looking at him, the tone of his voice, that he could say _not really_ and leave it at that. It’s tempting. “I got in touch with someone from that surgical program,” he says. “I’m meeting one of the doctors at the end of April. Just to, you know, get some more information.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

It reminds him of what Steve asked him, and not without a prickle of painful confusion. “Just for the information,” he repeats. “I haven’t made a decision. I don’t know when I will. But I want to learn more.”

Sam nods. “How do you feel about the meeting?”

“I… kind of nervous, I guess.” Bucky shrugs. “But—Steve, my boyfriend, I don’t know if you re—anyways, he said something a few weeks ago about what a big decision it is. And I’ve been thinking a lot about that ever since.” He glances at Sam, who raises one eyebrow. “I mean, I just have to ask myself, why do I want to get rid of it? My arm. And if I do, I mean, it’s not going to solve everything. I’ll still have—” He sighs, finding it unexpectedly difficult to get the words out of his throat. Although maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. “I’ll still have killed people. It’ll all still have happened to me.”

“What?” Sam asks. “What happened to you?”

Bucky blinks at him. He opens his mouth but isn’t sure what to say. “You know,” he says, fumbling, “I was captured.” He forces it out. “Tortured. I got out. That’s what happened.” This is the only way they ever talk about it, in fragments. It’s nothing new. “What do you mean, what happened to me? You know what happened. What happened to you?”

The question is over his lips before he stops to wonder if it’s a good idea, or even whether or not it’s allowed. But Sam shifts in his chair and, as always, meets his gaze directly. “I was in Afghanistan,” he says, his voice completely neutral. “Pararescue, two tours. My buddy Riley got hit, though. I left pretty quickly after that.” There’s not even a change in his tone. “I’ve been doing therapy for about ten years now. And I’ve been a therapist myself for six.”

It’s not the answer Bucky expected, but he doesn’t know if there’s anything that he would have predicted. Almost more than the surprise, he can’t believe that it took him this long to ask. “Sorry,” he says, and it feels clumsy and inadequate.

Sam smiles at him, waves a hand. “I’m doing pretty good now, all things considered.”

There it is, the qualifier. “How can you talk about it,” Bucky asks, “just like that?”

Thoughtful, Sam tilts his head. “I didn’t do it from day one,” he says. “It took a while.”

And that’s what Bucky’s starting to get, honestly—that maybe he told Natasha the truth, that there isn’t a finish line they can cross. “It’s just,” he says, and stops, frustrated. “There’s just so far to go.”

“Bucky.” Sam waits till Bucky meets his eyes. He’s still smiling, his eyes warm. “You’ve already come so far.”

—

Bucky leans on his shovel, feeling a bit of slushy, melting snow seep over the top of his boots. His phone is vibrating in his pocket. It’s the second week of March, technically almost spring, but up here on the roof the wind whips at him like they’re still in the depths of winter. He shivers as he takes his phone out, and then sees that it’s Steve calling. He feels at once like an idiot for not having expected this, and puts the phone to his ear. “Steve?”

“Bucky, hi,” Steve says, and he sounds so concerned that it takes away some of the joy at hearing his voice. “I heard about Natasha. It all sounds... pretty rough. How’s she doing?”

“A little better, I think,” Bucky says, touched but not surprised. “Kind of hard to tell. Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better, you know?” He rubs a hand over his face, trying to thaw his nearly-numb cheeks. “And she moved out, so I haven’t seen her for a week or two.”

Steve’s voice is sharp with confusion. “What, why?”

“Uh.” Bucky screws up his face against a sudden gust. “Listen, my shift’s just about over,” he says. “Could we meet up somewhere to talk?”

When he walks into Allegretto half an hour later, Steve is already seated at a tiny table by the window—but as Bucky approaches, Steve gets up and takes a step toward him. “Hi,” he says again, and he looks as if there’s a question he doesn’t know how to ask.

Luckily, Bucky knows what it is. “Hi,” he replies, and pulls Steve into a hug, the two of them folding together just the way they always have. Steve’s face is mushed into his shoulder and his hair is scratchy against Bucky’s chin, but neither of them moves for several seconds. It’s been a while. Too long, Bucky knows now.

Eventually they separate and sit at the table, and Steve taps out a nervous rhythm with his fingers. “Clint told me,” he says. “He said—I mean, he didn’t say much. But you said she moved out?”

Bucky shrugs and runs a hand through his hair. “The environment we had wasn’t the best,” he says. “Both of us in such close quarters, dealing with such similar shit. Turns out it was kind of a time bomb.” He sees the question already on Steve’s lips. “She’s staying with her friend May, in Queens. Apparently May invited her to live there when she first came to the city, so it wasn’t completely out of the blue.”

“Oh.” Steve nods. “How long do you think—?”

“A few months, probably,” Bucky says. “She wasn’t sure how much time she needed. And it’s probably good for me, too,” he adds.

Steve blinks, looking as if he wants to ask something but is trying not to. “I’m glad you feel that way about it,” is all he says.

It’s a strategic answer, and he looks so unsure. Watching him sit there, his hands knotted together, leaning hesitantly forward, Bucky’s heart swells. “I wanted to talk to you after the wedding,” he says. “I did, but then I thought—you were busy with the festival, and then everything with Natasha was just—I guess I didn’t know how to say it. And I wasn’t sure—I’m still not sure—if it’s really my place.”

“That’s fair,” Steve says, nodding.

“But,” Bucky continues, worrying his bottom lip and trying to find the words. The quick tempo of Steve’s drumming on the tabletop makes him anxious; he closes his eyes briefly to put it out of his mind. “But I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me,” he says, “at the wedding, but before, too. And you’re right. It looked to me like you always knew what you were doing, even when you didn’t.” He smiles so that Steve will know he isn’t trying to fight; all he wants, now, is for Steve to understand. “But I didn’t realize how—frightening it was, having someone think that about you, until Natasha did it to me.” He shrugs, helpless, feeling again the stomach-clenching shock of it. “But I was also doing it about her, you know, even though I’d been worried about her for a while. I saw what I wanted to see, what I hoped I would see. And I ignored the other stuff.” He sighs, the heavy breath leaving him like he’s held it for years.

Steve smiles back, sympathy in his eyes. “You see it now, though,” he points out. “That’s something.”

Somehow, that does help. “I guess it is.” And—God, he’s so tired of being tired. He doesn’t want it anymore, this distance, this uncertainty. He doesn’t know who it’s coming from anymore. Bucky places his hands atop the little table between them—and Steve, without hesitation, takes them. “Enough about me,” Bucky says, gratified to get a chuckle in response. “How are you?”

It looks for a moment as if he’s misjudged—Steve’s smile fades and a crease appears on his brow. “Since you asked,” Steve says. He meets Bucky’s eyes and then turns his head to look out the window at the street, busy and melting and gray. “Since you asked, I’m, um—not doing so great today.” He takes a breath in but doesn’t continue, still watching the street.

When Steve is quiet for several seconds, Bucky asks, “What’s up today?”

Steve looks back at him. “My back,” he says, and the admission comes quietly. “It’s a bad day for walking, and—and also for standing, if I’m not careful,” he adds. “I almost didn’t come into work this morning. Too dizzy.” His lips twitch as if he’s thinking of smiling again. “Well. It’s just hard.”

Bucky nods. “I understand.” He waits a moment to make sure that Steve doesn’t have more to add. “For the record,” he says, “you don’t have to wait for me to ask.”

He sees the way that hits Steve, just like at the wedding, the softening of his face in surprise. His voice, when he speaks a minute later, is low. “I know.”

Bucky watched him think it through, and now he watches Steve believe it: feels his grip tighten minutely, his thumb move over the back of Bucky’s hand. He’s amazed himself that they’re here, together, and it’s a relief, a miraculous release when he thinks of how scared he’s been. How long could he have gone on like that? How long could any of them keep it up? And—why the hell do they keep thinking that they have to? He’s overcome by the urge to gather Steve into his arms the way he embraced Natasha the day she moved out. 

And then he thinks: what’s stopping him? What is he afraid of?

“Stevie?” he says.

Steve meets his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I want to kiss you,” he says, “if that’s okay.”

At that, Steve smiles, light and easy as ever, thawing ice and birdsong. “That’s more than okay, Buck.” They both lean forward at once, over-eager, and nearly collide, and then they have to laugh and then—and then his lips are on Steve’s, and he welcomes the hand that pushes his hair back, the touch familiar, too long absent, the most precious sensation he knows.

—

“It’s nice,” Bucky says, “really.” It’s the third time he’s said something to that effect, but Natasha keeps looking at him almost defensively. He’s not lying; the house _is_ nice. It’s eclectic, like Steve’s apartment, but still coherent, unlike Steve’s mishmash of randomly-curated art. And Natasha fills the space as if she’s grown roots here in a way she never did in their apartment. “And you like it?” He wants to ask, _and you’re happy?_ but figures that might be bit much to expect.

Natasha nods. “It’s definitely a quiet neighborhood, or at least quieter than Water Street. And the route to the community center’s pretty all right. A little long.” She chuckles. “Also, May’s taking care of her nephew? Peter? He’s sixteen, I think, so—I mean, that’s a trip and a half just on its own.”

As if on cue, there’s a crash from upstairs and some muffled swearing. “Seems like a good kid,” Bucky says dryly.

Natasha grins. “So do you have my stuff or not?”

“Oh—yeah.” Bucky leads the way back out to the curb. “It was just the one box, right?”

“Y—that’s Clint’s,” Natasha observes. “How did you—?”

Bucky undoes the bungee cords and hefts the box off the back of the bike. “You didn’t think I walked all the way over here, did you?”

She holds the front door open for him. “I thought Tony dropped you off in the convertible.”

“He’s working.” Bucky stops in the kitchen. “Where do you want it?”

She beckons for him to follow her down the hall. “How do you do the helmet?” she asks. “I thought you hated masks.”

“It’s faceless, so I barely notice. It’s the crazy traffic that’s the real problem.” He puts the box down on the bed in her room, which is slightly larger than the one she had in the apartment, with a big window. The same fairy lights on the ceiling. “But I’m dealing with it.”

“Are you.” Her arms are folded.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are you dealing with it in a good way?” she counters.

He rolls his eyes. “Who are you, my therapist?” It comes out sounding so rude that he blushes. “Um, sorry. But—yeah, I think I’m doing okay with it. Rode it all the way over here and barely broke a sweat, so that’s something, huh?”

“That’s something,” she agrees, and gives him a smile that says she’s not offended. “Come on. You want some coffee before you go? Tea, anything?”

“Tea, please.” He watches her heat the water, then blinks away when she turns around. It’s strange to feel like a guest while she does this. And he can feel her watching him still, so he meets her gaze again after all. “Do you ever talk about what happened?” he asks. “To anyone?”

It’s her turn to look away. “I’m trying to,” she says. “There’s so much to say, though. It’s not something you just mention casually and then drop.” She gives a short sigh. “Kind of wish it could be, sometimes.”

They both let that settle. The water boils and Natasha tosses him a Tupperware full of teabags, and makes herself instant coffee. They sit at the table in silence, the air between them mostly clear. Bittersweet but not sad, conflicted but no longer so fraught. There’s more crashing from upstairs. When it dies down again, Natasha says, “I heard you patched things up with Steve.”

“Clint told you?”

She nods. “He said you’re both idiots.”

It’s as accurate an evaluation as any, Bucky figures. If they’ve proven anything in the past few weeks, it’s that they’re stupid on both ends. “He’s not wrong.”

She snorts. “The art festival’s still got one day left, by the way. Clint took me to check it out. You should go take a look.”

“I can’t.” Bucky smiles at her indignant frown. “Yeah, it’s awful of me. But Steve knows, and he said he didn’t mind.”

“What’s so important?” she demands. “He’s only been working on this for like a year. He’s only your _boyfriend.”_

“Nah, he’s more than that,” Bucky says. “But I have to pay someone a visit. It’s kind of overdue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The abstract work Bucky looks at is "Untitled" by Lee Krasner (1949).
> 
> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!


	14. Part Five: Spring (Reprise)

Bucky actually has to look up the address when he gets closer—and that’s the first twinge of pain, like a live wire compared to the numb anticipation that’s been his companion for the first part of the trip. The motorcycle hums and shakes beneath him, the tires spraying gravel when he takes the turn. The air is just turning warm now, but it still cuts at this speed, even wearing the riding gear. Or maybe the chill is just from the shiver that runs through his whole body at the familiar landscape. He can see the house.

He parks the bike at the very end of the long drive to give himself a little more time. On the walk up, though, it turns out he just has a few minutes longer to smell the road on his own body and feel the stiffness in his limbs. It’s a long ride to Connecticut; after all, isn’t that one of the excuses he’s been using all this time?

At the door, Bucky reaches out his left hand towards the doorbell, but the door swings open before he touches the button.

“Oh my God,” Rebecca says at once, regarding him with wide eyes. She stares at him for a long moment, and he smiles at her. She doesn’t return it. After several seconds, though, she steps aside, swallowing down the shock. “You wanna come in?”

He does, more than anything. The house is pretty much how he remembers it, old and long-settled, but it feels smaller, closer, somehow: as if the colors are different, or the air itself. Or maybe it’s him that’s changed. Rebecca looks just the same, and when he looks into her face, he sees his own eyes blinking back. “Hi, Becs.” His throat scratches; he clears it. “Sorry I took so long.”

Rebecca raises one eyebrow and looks down at her own hands, then turns and goes down the hall to the back of the house, beckoning with her head for him to follow. Bucky goes after her at a distance. He spots a picture of the two of them on a shelf when they go into the living room: Rebecca sunburned and beaming, him in his dress uniform and the shade of the tree behind them falling half across his face. Years ago in another life. He tears his gaze from their frozen, photo-printed faces and sits across from Rebecca.

She regards him calmly, but he can see how much of an effort it costs her. She’s leaning on the arm of the couch, her toes tucked up under her body, and she looks as young as Bucky suddenly feels. “It’s been twenty months,” she says at length. Her brow furrows. “Are you—I mean, how are you, now?”

Bucky isn’t sure what she’s asking, and he’s not sure if Rebecca is, either. “I’m doing better,” he says. It feels like he’s telling that to everyone these days—and it’s truer than it’s ever been, but it’s still not really an answer. Just some words. “Um, how are you?”

“I’m okay.” She nods. “Still working at Pym Tech. And, well, the house is still standing. Against all odds.” She gestures at the room in general.

It’s easier to look around at the furniture than to face her. “You, uh—you’re living alone out here?”

There’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “What’s it to you?”

“Just wondering,” he says, wanting to smile back but afraid of pushing her too fast. He takes a deep breath. Out with it, Barnes. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he tells her. “God, Becs, I—”

She holds up a hand and stops him dead. “I don’t know about that. Maybe you did need to leave.” Her voice isn’t harsh, but he flinches. “Maybe it was the right thing to do. But you didn’t need to give me complete radio silence for a year and a half.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky says, barely whispering. “I didn’t know what else to do.” He can see it again in his mind’s eye—after the collapse and that frightening, agonizing week; after he’d apologized and done his best to mop up the mess he’d made; after the memory surfaced of the words Rebecca spoke at his bedside while he lay anesthetized and drifting in a clean-smelling haze. _Mom, I’m scared for him. I don’t think I can do this._ Sounding twelve years old again. Though if Bucky’s honest with himself, that was just the final straw. “What was I supposed to say to you? After—you know, everything I’d already done?”

It silences her for a long moment. “You mean the thing with the lawnmower?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not just that. I was thinking—that last time, with the neighbors. When you called Mom.”

“Oh.” Again, she pauses before speaking, her fingers splayed over her knees. “Yeah, that was a lot.”

It stings, but it’s true. “I didn’t know how to apologize. How to even start. I made you worry, and I couldn’t think of a way to make that better.”

“So you thought saying nothing would work?”

This isn’t how Bucky wanted it to go. He resists the urge to reach for her, even though it’s killing him to sit still. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I shouldn’t have—” Bucky can see that she’s surprised at the heat in his voice; he forces the rest of it out. “I should never have forced you to handle everything. I was so—so beyond fucked up, and I know you were trying to help, but it wasn’t fair. You couldn’t deal with it on your own. I shouldn’t have expected you to.”

“Oh, God, Bucky.” She’s shaking her head at him almost exasperatedly. “Of course I couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t handle it, either. It was just too much for any one person.”

“I know that now,” he says. “I—”

“Do you?” Her eyes are bright. “Why’d it take so long?”

“Because I—” He sucks in a breath and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Because I love you, Becs. You’re my little sister. And I didn’t know how to face you, so the longer it went, I just—convinced myself that it was for the best. Because I didn’t want to hurt you more. But I was just making it worse for both of us.” His voice has sunk low again, and he swallows hard. “I shouldn’t have expected you to take me on, the way I was then. Not even the way I am now. But I… I should’ve let you.”

Rebecca waits for him to finish, more patient than he deserves. “I’ve been really worried about you since you left,” she tells him then. “I think even more than when you were staying here. You know?”

Bucky doesn’t know, but he can imagine. He nods.

“I figured you were okay,” she says. “More or less. I knew I’d hear if—if anything really bad happened, and you at least gave me your new address. But I couldn’t do anything if you didn’t want me to.” She crosses her arms. “I love you, too.”

She says it like it’s another part of the damage he’s caused her—and Bucky thinks that maybe it is. If love is something you do to other people and not just something that springs fully-formed from the loam, even with family. Where living long and happy lives together is hoped for but far from guaranteed. “I wish I hadn’t left,” he tells her now, “or at least not for so long. I can’t change it. But I’m here now, Becs—and I want to say I’m sorry, at least.”

Again, the hint of that smile. “Thanks.” Rebecca tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and lifts her chin. “You don’t really sound like yourself, though.”

“I don’t?” he asks, taken aback.

“Not at all. You definitely weren’t this… introspective, before.” She waves a hand. “I mean way before. Or this humble.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s been a wild year.”

“Apparently.” At last, she really does smile, showing that single lopsided dimple that he used to tease her for. “Tell me about it.”

“Oh, well, I just got, uh, really involved in an art gallery.” He chuckles, the relief slowly trickling through his veins. “Met a guy, met all his friends too somehow. I don’t think anything actually happened, though.”

She snorts. “Must be some guy.”

Bucky nods. “He’s an idiot.”

Rebecca grins, and he can already tell she’s going to make him regret that. “Takes one to know one.”

She and Natasha are much too similar. Fortunately, he’s learned a thing or two. “I could say the same about you.”

Rebecca laughs. It lights up the room.

—

The front windows of the gallery concentrate the sunlight that falls through them, making the front rooms warmer than they should be, as if it’s summer rather than early spring. “Wow,” Bucky says as he walks in, listening to the strange echo of the bell. “Pretty weird, this layout.”

“Oh, hey!” comes Steve’s call from somewhere in the back. He comes out smiling. “I forgot, you haven’t actually seen the place since we moved it all around.”

“It’s so empty.” Bucky feels out-of-place without the carefully curated pieces at the front, the clutter and little knick-knacks removed from the desk although the festival’s officially over now. He bends down to meet Steve halfway and receives a quick kiss. “Thanks for waiting.”

“Thanks for coming,” Steve replies. “Most of the stuff’s gone, people had to pack up kind of quickly, but—well, it’s back here.” He ducks his head and leads the way through the door to the right of the desk, through multiple empty rooms. Their footsteps echo quietly off the walls. “Here,” Steve says, and holds open the door to the back workshop.

Bucky walks through it. Then he gasps at the sight of the sculpture, still towering over the two of them, still shaped with rough, nearly crude lines. But there are deep gouges in the plaster now, parts that look as if they’ve been hacked off leaving fractured surfaces behind. It looks like it’s been ruined. Bucky has the good sense not to say that aloud, but he can’t help feeling aghast at the damage, particularly when he thinks of the strength of the statue before—so vibrant and powerful. He can still clearly make out the limbs and the almost-defiant pose, and it’s still striking, but it’s not the same.

“It’s not what I expected,” he says carefully, trying to gather his thoughts enough to say something appreciative, more acutely aware than ever that he’s completely uneducated when it comes to art. But he keeps coming up empty-handed.

“It’s meant to be viewed from all sides,” Steve tells him, then rushes to explain. “During the festival it was in the middle of the room, you know, so everyone could see, but in this room I guess it’s not so self-evident. But, um, that might help.” He shrugs, not quite defensive, but as if he knows what Bucky was thinking.

Bucky hopes not. He takes Steve’s advice and starts a slow circle around the sculpture, watching the light hit the curving, jagged edges and noticing how the shadows shift. It happens so gradually that he almost doesn’t realize—but then he can see it, the change in perspective that causes all the pieces to fit together. So that from a certain angle, in a certain light, the missing chunks create a coherent outline, and the sculpture forms a monolith in silhouette.

The breath leaves him again, this time in amazement. “It looks—” He turns his head to Steve to find him suppressing a smile as he gazes down at his own hands. Bucky looks back to the sculpture and continues walking around it, finding two other vantage points from which the imperfections disappear. Except they don’t disappear, really; they just become another feature, less ugly than he’d thought. Not ruined. Just different than before.

“Wow,” he says to Steve, finishing the circle and coming back around to take his hand. “I…” Again, he’s at a loss for words. It’s still not what he expected. It’s so much _more_ than he expected. “It’s beautiful,” he says, looking at the mangled form, trying to see the smooth pillar in it without moving from where he’s standing. And it is beautiful, somehow, even now. “Did you plan on it being like this from the beginning?”

Steve shrugs. “Kind of. I changed my mind a few times in the process, but I think I knew how I wanted it to end up.” He laughs. “Even if I’m not sure what it is now, exactly.”

“Does it need to be exactly anything?” Bucky asks, pulling him close to his side. “Maybe it’s enough that it just makes you feel things.”

“Hmm,” Steve says. “What does it make you feel?”

The question sounds so casual in his voice, as if he doesn’t know the gravity of what he’s asking. “It almost makes me want to cry,” Bucky says, “but I don’t know why.”

“It makes you sad?”

“No.” Bucky shakes his head, surprised at how adamant he is. “More hopeful, I think. Or something.”

“You’re something,” Steve chuckles, pressing another kiss to his shoulder. “Come on. Enough navel-gazing for me. Let’s get some dinner. Or something.”

Bucky stays where he is, though Steve’s pulling on his hand. “Not yet. I’ll meet you out front, okay?” He lets go of Steve’s hand. “I just wanna look at it a little bit longer. I really—it’s really impressive.”

So Steve leaves him there, and Bucky stares at the statue. He can’t get enough of the strange broken parts, the places where whole pieces are missing. Would he know it was imperfect if he hadn’t seen the way it was in the beginning? And which one is how it was meant to be? And would it make this shattered thing less beautiful, or the whole and undamaged original more perfect, either way? Again, his eyes trace the hollow of the broken-off shoulder, the cuts that score one hip, marring the barely-defined shape of the body beneath. But he’s starting to be able to fit all of that into the monolith now, almost able to see it on its own.

He doesn’t think he wants to cry, actually. He doesn’t know what he wants. The thought doesn’t frighten him as much as it used to.

In the front room, he finds Steve lying on his back in the middle of the sunniest patch of floor as if he’s imitating Jarvis, who is curled up a few feet away. Bucky isn’t sure if he’s doing some impromptu inspirational exercise, or if he’s just resting with the chair cleared from behind the desk. _What the hell,_ Bucky decides, and lies down beside him. Without opening his eyes, Steve links their pinkies together.

Bucky smiles. Words rise up in his chest and he feels the nervous clench of his stomach as always. “You know we never really properly talk about all the bad shit?” he asks.

“What bad shit?”

“Your shit, my shit.” Bucky waves a vague hand at the air above them, swiping through dust motes that swirl like flecks of gold. “The shit that happened to us. That’s still happening to us. We talk about it when it’s relevant, but sometimes—sometimes you just need to talk. Because it’s there and it’s not going away.” The tightness in his chest is easing already. “And maybe we should do that more.”

Steve turns to him, though his shoulder can’t be comfortable on the hardwood. “You think?”

Bucky nods. “Might make things easier.”

The expression on Steve’s face is thoughtful. “Are you nervous about meeting with that doctor next Friday?”

“Nah, it’s not that.” Or maybe it is, a little. But only a little. “It’s more like, it was two years last week.” He can see in Steve’s eyes the understanding. “Two years since I got out. And…”

“What?” Steve’s thumb makes circles on the back of his hand.

Bucky breathes in deep and lets it out. “And I’m so happy right now,” he says quietly. It’s as true as it’s ever been. “I didn’t expect that.”

“I am, too,” Steve replies.

It strikes Bucky as funny, finally, that they’ve ended up here. In spite of everything, and yet… Bucky laughs to himself. “I was thinking,” he says, and then stops. He’s thinking now, mostly unbidden, of the pain in Steve’s voice months ago as he tried to make Bucky understand his anger: _Because they hurt you._ He feels that pain himself, too. Not the torture or the imprisonment, but the helplessness, the weakness perceived, caught as he is between the naked meaningless of both the sudden tragedies and those that drag out over years, over lives, and the desperate, reflexive need for an explanation. The old uncertainty threatens again, and Bucky lets it wash over him, lets it crest and subside. “Well, just thinking,” he finishes.

But Steve makes a curious noise, so Bucky says it aloud. “Just kind of wondering—are the people we meet just a chance result of the things that have happened to us? Or do things happen to us _so that_ we end up meeting specific people? Or is it all just an accident?” He shakes his head, looks over to Steve. “Doesn’t really matter either way. I figure I’m just pretty lucky to have met you.”

The days are growing longer; the sunlight hasn’t yet begun to fade. Steve’s eyes are clear and brilliant in the evening glow. “You say that,” he murmurs, “but I get the feeling I’m the lucky one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you to everyone who has read this story, enjoyed the art, and left a comment/kudos or sent a message! It means the world to us!
> 
> A few notes on liberties taken with the writing:
> 
>   * I've never been to NYC and there's only so much Google Maps can tell me. I'm not sure if there’s any possible construction in the world that would add an hour on to a _walking_ route. I also have no idea how long it takes to exit NYC from Brooklyn, or what kind of cemeteries are out there. Or what the countryside in that part of the country looks like. 
>   * Coney Island trolleys (as mentioned in Chapter 7) aren’t a thing anymore, but they were in the 40s, and went right past (you guessed it) the Cyclone. 
>   * Inspiration and some literal pieces of the wedding vows were taken from [here](https://www.minted.com/wedding-ideas/wedding-vows/romantic)
>   * I also am not very knowledgeable about how to sculpt, though from what I was able to find it should be _technically_ possible to sculpt something very large with plaster of Paris, even if it wouldn’t be particularly _likely._
> 

> 
> Cybelle is [lovecybelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovecybelle) on AO3 and we are [blanketed-in-stars](https://blanketed-in-stars.tumblr.com) and [buckysoldatbarnes](https://buckysoldatbarnes.tumblr.com)/[celebratingthebeautyofwords](http://celebratingthebeautyofwords.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come say hi!
> 
> And to all our readers in the US: please, please, _please_ get registered to vote and then go out and vote next week on November 6th!


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